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MY OLD BAILIWICK 


By OWEN KILDARE 


The Wisdom of the 
Simple. A Tale of 
Lower New York. 
i 2 mo, cloth, $1.50 

‘ ‘ There is a virile strength to 
the man and an aptness that 
astonishes you on every page. 
Owen Kildare knows the people 
and the life in the lower city 
and tells it simply and startling¬ 
ly, with the pen and utterances 
of a magician of ideas and 
words. and Presbyter. 










AN ALL NIGiri' 


“ILWNKTt CAKKIEI 


i 








MY OLD 
B AILI WICK 


Sketches from the Parish of 
" MT MAMIE ROSE” 

By OWEN KILDARE 

»» 


ILLUSTRATED 



New York Chicago Toronto 

Fleming H, Revell Company 

London and Edinburgh 




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Copyright, 1906, by 

FLEMING H. REVELL COMPANY 


UBHARY nf CONGRESS/ 
Kecejve<^ / 

OCT 24 1906 I 

Oopv, isrm e.nuy I 

■*’ 44 / 

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New York : 158 Fifth Avenue 

Chicago : 80 Wabash Avenue 

Toronto : 25 Richmond St.,W. 

London : 21 Paternoster Square 

Edinburgh : 100 Princes Street 


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Contents 


I. 

The Requiem of the “Has-beens” 



9 

II. 

The Hard Life .... 



32 

III. 

The Burden of the Heavy-laden . 



39 

IV. 

The Level of the Sodden 



62 

V. 

The Sentimental Side of the Slums 



76 

VI. 

The Feelings of the City Father 



91 

VII. 

When the Midnight City Wakes 



IIO 

VIIL 

A Legatee of Lovelessness 



130 

IX. 

The Welcome of the City 



141 

X. 

The Talmud Man from Wilna 



157 

XI. 

The Bowery Mission 



173 

XIL 

From the Sinners’ Benches 



194 

XIII. 

The Volunteer Organist 



206 

XIV. 

The Mother of the Tenements 



220 

XV. 

The Case of Officer Flanagan 



237 

XVI. 

A Limb of the Law 



254 

XVII. 

The Slums’ Point of View 



272 

XVIII, 

The Burden of the Many 



286 

XIX. 

Yule-tide Down in Mulberry 



304 






























































































LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Bjr courtesy of T'he Success Company 

FACING PAGE 

An all Ni(;ht “Banner Carrier.” . Title 
“He is Satiseied to Carry a- Sion for 
Food” ....... 32 

^‘WiTH A Ticket Before Hlm, Can You 
Not Guess His Answer?” ... 47 

^‘Treats the Bovs to Coffee and Sand¬ 
wiches” . . . . . .180 

“Wrecks of their Own Folly” . . 284 




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AUTHOR’S NOTE 

The articles and stories collected in this volume are 
intended to give sidelights on the true conditions of 
slum and tenement life in New York City. The 
pivot of the world described in the following pages, 
is the Bowery Mission, the clearing house for the 
foolish and miserable of the slums. So much has 
been written about the poor that it is to be hoped 
the distinctions and differences between tenement 
and slum people are understood. If some wrong 
conceptions still exist, I hope these stories will make 
it clear that even in the tenement and slum districts 
castes and classes are jealous of their distinctions. 
Poverty does not always level. The victipi of con¬ 
ditions, which he cannot control, and the victim of 
his own viciousness, although both equally poor, 
find a wide gulf between them. 

The material offered is not all new, some of it 
having been selected from former writings, to which 
has been added other stories now for the first time 
printed. The Feelings of the City Father,” ‘‘ A 
Limb of the Law,” ‘‘ The Burden of the Many,” 
“ The Level of the Sodden,” and “ Tlie Talmud 
Man from Wilna,” were published in Pearson's; 


8 


AUTHOR’S NOTE 


‘‘ Yuletide Down in Mulberry ” and ‘‘ A Legatee 
of Lovelessness ” appeared in The Outlook; “ The 
Burden of the Heavy-Laden ” and ‘‘ The Requiem 
of the ‘ Has-Beens ’ ” in Success; “ The Hard 
Life ’’ and “ The Sentimental Side of the Slums ’’ 
in the Saturday Evening Post; ‘‘ The Case of Offi¬ 
cer Flanagan,” From the Sinners’ Benches,” and 
“ The Mother of the Tenements ” in The Christian 
Herald; “ The Slums’ Point of View ” in The In¬ 
dependent. 

For the information and data of the Bowery 
Mission I am indebted to Dr. Louis Klopsch and 
Superintendent J. G. Hallimond. 

Owen Frawley Kildare. 


Hartford, Conn. 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


f 


I 


THE REQUIEM OF THE HAS-BEENS” 


Brother, you are gazing backward toward the scenes of your 
mistakes; 

You are weeping o’er your errors till your proud heart almost 
breaks. 

You’re repenting and regretting, you are sighing, '‘Oh, alas!” 

And you’re missing all the glories of the present as they pass. 

Leave the grim and gruesome picture,—look the other way 
awhile. 

For the face that’s toward the future is the face that wears a 
smile.—S. W. Gillilan. 


I had only known! Oh, if I had only 
I known! ” Time and time again have I heard 
this cry wrung from the breasts of men 
who, according to all laws of nature, should have 
been in the midst of the struggle of life, with no time 
for vain regrets. The wail is pathetic and full of self- 
reproach, and it excites pity, but the men who give 
utterance to it are not always entirely deserving of 
commiseration. They are puzzling mysteries, not 
only to casual observers^ but also to the men and 
women who have made this particular class their 
life-study. 


9 


10 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ If I had only known! Oh, if I had only 
known! —with all its pathos,—is nothing more 
or less than a confession of inability to battle with 
the least adverse of circumstances. Ignorance of 
the existence before them cannot be pleaded by 
the “ has-beens.” A week’s stay in a great city like 
New York affords one enough side-lights on the 
lives of these wrecks to understand their dreariness. 
The news columns, police court records, and hospi¬ 
tal reports leave no phase of this life untouched; 
yet along the Bowery of New York—that great 
highway of the foolish and the miserable—are seen, 
daily, new recruits for the army of the hopeless. 

Would that I could say to you, “ Come, let you 
and me go out into the morass and drag from its 
slimy suction a fellow-man.” But I cannot. The 
battle is fought without ceasing, the cures are lav¬ 
ishly applied, and much of our pitying love is given, 
but still others come along the highway, not to fill 
the vacancies, for there are few, but to swell the 
ranks of this sinister army. If I cannot suggest 
an effective remedy for the curing of this condition, 
I can, at least, give you the truth concerning it. 

As in all other great cities, one section of New 
York is given up almost entirely to the flotsam and 
jetsam of the population. The Bowery—always con¬ 
demned, often defamed—and its immediate vicinity 
have long been the camping-ground of the home¬ 
less. Being an important thoroughfare, it is trav- 


REQUIEM OF THE ‘‘HAS-BEENS’^ ii 


ersed by many people, and many attractive stores 
are rivals in luring prospective buyers. The re¬ 
sorts of ten years ago have vanished, and the day 
life of the Bowery is not at all what a stranger 
would expect. The street is kept as clean as many 
others in this metropolis, there are both well-dressed 
and shabbily-dressed people to be seen on it, and in 
no essential does the Bowery differ from other busy 
thoroughfares. Even at night—with only a mini¬ 
mum of resorts open—the Bowery always disap¬ 
points a frisky sightseer. 

The “ yellow ” danger of the Bowery does not 
parade on the sidewalks; it cannot be found in the 
many rumshops, but creeps, like a stealthy, poison¬ 
ous germ, into the very hearts and minds of men, 
who, in the end, become actually fascinated with 
this repelling Bohemia of the nether world. It is 
their mental attitude, or, rather, their moral and 
mental deficiency, that makes these men mere mile¬ 
stones on the miserable highway. I know, and 
you know, how we are influenced by our environ¬ 
ment, in spite of normal brains and bodies. What, 
then, shall be said of the man who, unbalanced by 
some unexpected happening, receives a little push 
from Fate, is unable to resist it, and shoots down 
the chute of misery to its very bottom? Stunned 
by his descent, he crawls to the first resting-place. 
Something has snapped within him, as it were; he 
looks about him, and does not feel the horror of 


12 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


his situation, is but mildly surprised at his emotion, 
and mutters to himself: ‘‘‘Oh, whafs the use of 
making an effort to-day to get away from here? 
I’ll do that to-morrow.” 

But lo! to-morrow he is infected by the germ 
that makes the men of the Bowery mere shadows 
of the spectre-world—men who are dead, but un¬ 
buried, who, like the bats of subterranean pas¬ 
sages, are flitting aimlessly in constant gloom, 
gazing backward on dead conditions, unwilling to 
face about and enter a kindly future. 

It is not profitable to deal in generalities when 
facts, solid facts, are close at hand. The tidal 
wave of political controversy which appears about 
a month before election delights in juggling with 
the term “ floating population.” It is a misnomer, 
when applied to the Bowery. A “ has-been ” might 
“ float ” from one house to the one next door; but 
he never, once there, floats away from the Bowery. 
That is known to every politician, who feels himself 
in duty bound to throw the accusation of utilising 
the “floating population.” to overcome the oppos¬ 
ing faction. It is merely a trick in the trade of 
patriotic statesmanship. 

The statesman! As the Romans clothed the men 
of wisdom and love of country in the flowing robes 
of dignity and called them “ senators,” so do we 
take—take by the will of the people—the men, fat 
of jowl and rotund of body, from beneath us, place 


REQUIEM OF THE ‘‘HAS-BEENS” 13 

them above us in the seats of the mighty, and give 
them power over us. Should a man growl because 
I say “ from beneath us . . . and give them 

power over us,” and should he wrathfully confront 
me with the lacerated slogan of political and other 
equality, I would not wish to stand in the way of 
his claim of being their equal, but would have 
trifling respect for his integrity. As I tell the stars 
by seeing them, and find but small difference in 
their lustre, so do I tell the rascals by their rascal¬ 
ity, and there is small difference in the degrees 
of rascality. Engineered by these statesmen, we 
have the pitiful spectacle every year of seeing 
men who have lost the last vestige of will-power 
coaxed into the belief that, for once, they are ex¬ 
ercising their own sovereign will to perform the 
most important duty of citizenship. That most of 
the “ has-beens ” are intoxicated on election day is, 
perhaps, a coincidence. 

The term “ floating population ” belongs distinc¬ 
tively to the Bowery, though, on rare occasions, it 
is also applied to other localities. “ Floating popu¬ 
lation ” and “ lodging-house population ” have be¬ 
come synonymous. The lodging houses being the 
abodes—they cannot be called the “ homes ”—of 
the “ has-beens,” it behooves us to examine their 
condition and numerical strength. 

The “ lodging-house population ” is one well 
worthy of a politician’s attention. From Brooklyn 


H 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Bridge to Cooper Union, a distance of about two 
miles, there are over one hundred lodging houses. 
A lodging house, to be a paying investment, must 
shelter at least two hundred and fifty men. Many 
houses, notably the Mills Hotel and the Salvation 
Army Hotel, exceed that figure by several hun¬ 
dreds. The most conservative estimate places the 
number of men who sleep in the. Bowery every 
night at fifty thousand. This does not include the 
storekeepers and their families, who live on the 
floors above the shops. Barely two miles of street 
and fifty thousand homeless men to people it! Is 
it any wonder that the wily politicians, who control 
the “ lodging-house vote,” are the most powerful 
of their party? 

Lodging houses are not run from philanthropic 
motives. They are business agencies, like other 
hotels, and competitive rivalry results in keeping 
the houses in fair sanitary condition. Some of 
them are almost excessively so in their use of dis¬ 
infectants. Such places fairly reek with a pungent, 
sharp smell, and with every breath one inhales doses 
of aromas of a germ-killing nature, which, no 
doubt, are healthful, but far from agreeable. 

The doorways of these houses are graced by 
shining glass plates stating the name and rate of 
each hotel. Above each plate swings a transpar¬ 
ency, on which again the name and rate are given. 
Besides this notice there is another which should 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS’’ 15 

at once remove all lodging-house patrons beyond 
the pale of criticism. Here is a front door sign: 

“The Norwood. Single bed, ten cents; single 
room, fifteen cents, per night. For Gentlemen 
only!” 

Is there a fashionable hotel which would or could 
guarantee all its guests to be “ gentlemen,” even 
at their extravagant rates. Hardly I Here, on the 
Bowery, provided his dime is accepted, the lodger 
has his social standing blazoned from a glaring 
sign. 

The payment of his ten or fifteen cents entitles 
the guest to all the conveniences the house affords. 
Very few houses, if any, are without bathing facil¬ 
ities. Some have both shower, and tub baths. 
Washstands and a plenitude of towels are on every 
floor. The sanitary condition is rigidly enforced 
by the health department. Whisk brooms, clothes 
brushes, and shoe brushes are hanging on stout 
chains in convenient places. The clerk, the foster- 
father of his homeless charges, has many conven¬ 
iences to distribute. Pins, needles, thread, buttons, 
and even patches; also writing material can be had. 

The social life of the guests is looked after 
by the proprietor. After ascending the stairs, 
covered with oilcloth and trimmed with shining 
brass, we find ourselves in the reading or sitting- 
room. In the most conspicuous place stands the 
office, a cage-like affair, affording a complete sur- 


i6 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


vey to the clerk on duty. Solid wooden tables, 
chairs, and benches furnish the room. Indistinct 
ornamentations and very distinctly printed rules 
decorate it. 

The following is an exact copy of a table of rules 
and regulations, not without its subtle irony: 

1. —This room is open for guests only from 6 a. m. 
to 11.30 P. M. 

2. —Loud talking, whistling, or profanity is not 
allowed. Guests must not discuss religion or politics. 

3. —Dominoes, checkers, or chess can be had at 
the office, and must be returned. Gambling for money 
is strictly prohibited. 

4. —All beds and rooms must be paid for in advance. 

No money refunded. 

5. —Intoxicated persons will not be permitted in the 
house at any time. 

6. —The proprietor will not be responsible for cloth¬ 
ing, goods, or personal effects left in the rooms. 

7 -—A safe for jewelry, money, and valuables is pro¬ 
vided in the office. 

8. —Guests occupying rooms should bolt and lock 
their doors before retiring. 

9. —Keys must be left at the office. 

10. —No trust whatever. 

The Proprietor. 

Here I must guard you against stumbling into 
an erroneous impression. Although the sign, the 
transparency, and the table of rules emphasise the 
importance of the “ room,’^ it is but a poor one. 
A “ room ” in a lodging house is a rather dismal 
thing. A wooden partition, eight feet high, incloses 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS’^ 17 

the “ room.” The inside space is seven feet by five 
feet. Between the cot and the opposite partition 
there is just room enough for a closet one foot 
square for clothes. This, as a rule, is all the fur¬ 
niture contained in a “ room ”—called a “ box- 
stall ” by the habitues —only a few houses augment¬ 
ing it by a stool. To insure the occupant of a room 
against unwelcome calls from his neighbours, heavy 
wire netting “ tops ” the “ room ” partitions. The 
“ single beds ” are in large dormitories. 

This is the scenarium for the tragedy of the “ has- 
beens.” With all its meagreness, cheapness, and 
other drawbacks, the physical character of the en¬ 
vironment is not the worst it could be, for a modi¬ 
cum of cleanliness is to be found everywhere, but 
the moral atmosphere^ or rather its absence, is the 
thing of horror. 

The average earnings of a working “ has- 
been ” never exceed a dollar a day. Thousands 
of them earn only fifty cents, a weekly total of 
three dollars, which sum must feed, clothe, and 
house them. It is done and can be done readily 
on their plane of life. 

Seventy cents pays for a week’s lodging. To 
eat more than twice a day is not deemed necessary. 
On Park Row and the Bowery are several cellar 
restaurants where five cents procures a “ square 
meal.” The meals are not totally bad, and the bill- 
of-fare is quite pretentious. Pork and beans, pea 


i8 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


soup, stew, hash, and hard-boiled eggs comprise 
the menu, and with each item four slices of bread 
and a bowl of coffee are served. “ Has-beens '' who 
are out of work or who belong to the positively idle 
class resort to the penny soup stands, where a cup 
of soup, or a cup of coffee, and one slice of bread, 
are sold for a cent. Two meals, at five cents a day, 
bring the board bill up to seventy cents for the 
week. Subtracting this, as well as the hotel bill, 
from the original sum of three dollars, the has- 
been ’’ finds himself the possessor of the substantial 
balance of one dollar and sixty cents. Free barber 
schools, where apprentices to the barber's trade per¬ 
fect themselves, take care of a “ has-been's " ton- 
sorial effectiveness. His hair is cut and his beard 
shaved off for no other expense than a few occa¬ 
sional drops of blood or a bit of skin. His laundry 
work is done by himself at his lodging house. If 
the wardrobe needs replenishing, the old-clothes 
market, where sales occur daily, at Bayard and 
Elizabeth Streets, is visited. Pieces of wearing ap¬ 
parel, hats, shoes, and linen, not good enough to 
be bought by the second-hand dealers, who have 
first choice of the wares brought from uptown by 
the “ old clo’es ” peddlers, are offered on the street 
comer, and are passed from hand to hand until 
bought for a mere pittance. After a purchase, a 
‘‘ has-been " makes the necessary repairs, and feels a 
real satisfaction in his bargain. 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS^’ 19 

The sitting-rooms of the lodging-houses, from 
the time of opening to the time of closing, are 
never vacant. Shortly after they are opened the 
wanderers of the night creep in to take stolen naps. 
They are a pitiful crew—the “banner-carriers.” 
Night after night, at the closing hour of the sitting- 
rooms, this troop of sorry shadows steps into the 
street to wear away long hours in the silence of their 
undying memories. Some of these men sit in the 
sheltering room all day after the weary travel of 
the night before. I have known men who had not 
slept in a bed for a week. They are the “ has- 
beens ” who have stepped down from the “ com¬ 
forts ” of their own world into that deplorable con¬ 
dition in which men merely wait around to die. 

They start—uptown, downtown, crosstown—who 
cares where—so long as time is killed, until the 
morning hour. Some walk in couples, others walk 
alone, with naught for company excepting their 
thoughts. Stops are made here and there, for even 
at night charitable people are not entirely unmind¬ 
ful of these drifting beings. Thousands of loaves 
of bread are dispensed by several large bakeries 
after the sun has folded his golden wings, and even 
coffee or some other warming drink is given. By 
night or by day, a “ has-been ” need not starve, and 
it is claimed by some that that is one of the reasons 
for his being a “ has-been.” He knows that he can 
always find food somewhere and snatch a bit of 


20 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


sleep now and then, but the one unfailing condition 
that brings a man to his senses is hunger. It can 
bridge the awful chasm between desperation and 
chance with more precision than anything else I 
know of, for it clings to one more inexorably than 
the gadfly clung to lo. 

When men live from hand to mouth, as these 
people do, a shortness in finances is easily incurred. 
These embarrassing periods are not without mo¬ 
ment to both the lodging house keeper and the 
lodger. Every proprietor is a political captain, and 
if you will note that some of them own as many as 
ten houses, you will understand the significance of 
their power. They are in close touch with their 
lodgers, and, being keen judges of human nature, 
know how to sift their material. 

Ten cents is a small sum, yet when it stands be¬ 
tween one and his bed for the night it has the con¬ 
juring power of making a time-worn cot as inviting 
as the canopied couch of a monarch. It may be 
raining—^perhaps snowing; in the rules of the house 
there is the threatening clause, “No trust what¬ 
ever,’' but you are courageous from despair and 
ask the proprietor to “ trust ” you just for one 
night. He listens, and, seeing that you are in straits 
and making sure that you have a vote, he grants 
the request and, for once, the petitioner is spared 
the harrowing experience of “ carrying the banner.” 

Is it surprising that a man who has been rescued 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS’^ 21 


from a pitiless storm and saved from a “ bedless ” 
night by the proprietor will have a feeling closely 
akin to gratitude as he slips under the shabby 
blankets? Perhaps he is compelled to ask his land¬ 
lord’s indulgence several times during the year, and 
when election day comes he, oppressed by his debt 
of obligations, readily obeys the command of his 
captain, who, besides having been kind to him, saves 
him the trouble of thinking. 

Many lodgers, without regard to the difference 
in the price, prefer the large dormitories to the 
stuffy wooden “ rooms.” Let us visit a dormi¬ 
tory—the place where the lesser brethren seek their 
slumber. It is an immense room, accommodating 
about one hundred men. All beds must be vacated 
by eleven o’clock, to permit the cleaners and “ bed- 
makers ” to perform their work. Every available 
window is opened, and brooms and scrubbing 
brushes are vigorously applied. Beds are turned up¬ 
side down, and, after being aired for an hour or two, 
are covered with clean linen. They are then ready 
for the next occupants. In the late afternoon every¬ 
thing is in shape, and the proprietor, inspecting the 
condition of the dormitory, is justified in challeng¬ 
ing criticism. The smell of soap and of disinfec¬ 
tants hangs in the air, and you are forced to admit 
that the place is very clean. The beds are in four 
measured rows from wall to wall, with an exact 
space, prescribed by law, between. It does not re- 


22 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


quire a great deal of imagination to find a simile 
for the quiet, untenanted place. Does it not re¬ 
semble a graveyard? It does, and, more’s the pity, 
it is one. 

Each cot, the mound above dead hopes and am¬ 
bitions, waits but the midnight hour to mock the 
waning spirit of its prisoner. Yes, these are cruel 
beds. On their hard pillows many a tear has fallen, 
and from them many has-beens ” have started for 
the great unknown. Still, they each night benumb 
victims into drowsiness to have their sport of 
dreams with them. The day aspect suggests the 
horror; the scene at night shows it in all its 
hideousness. 

The long room, never brilliantly lighted, is in 
almost complete darkness. Just one dim, flickering 
flame of gas makes feeble resistance against the 
blackish gloom. But with each draught coming 
from the stairway the shadows dance on the walls 
as if swaying with an overhanging pall. The order 
of the beds is gone, and in its stead are rows of 
twisting, squirming bodies. Yes, it is quiet, and, 
therefore, the sudden noises falling on one’s ear are 
so much the more accentuated. 

Here a strong, young, and well-proportioned 
lodger, after a day spent in idleness, feels now in 
slumber the energy left unawakened during the 
day. His muscles swell, his chest heaves heavily 
with some dreamed-of exertion, and the has- 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS’’ 23 

been ” is his former self at the midnight hour in 
the dormitory. There one is wrestling with his 
waning intoxication. He mutters, growls, and 
curses soft or loud, while in his face no intellect 
can be traced. No “ has-been ” can claim to have 
a normal mind; if he further deadens it with poi¬ 
sonous fusel oil, he cannot blame his face for show¬ 
ing the reflection. One’s eyes often speak louder 
than the voice. 

Dreams are magicians of no small degree. In 
yonder darkened corner, a man, grey-haired and on 
in years, sleeps fairly restful sleep, for he has rested 
on this cot for many years—a veteran “ has-been.” 
Yet even he is not without his fantasies. A smile 
flits about his mouth, and ever an anon he mum¬ 
bles softly a name which you feel was once to him 
the dearest one on this earth. A few more hours 
will pass, and, with his waking, he will be many, 
many years distant from the scenes which, in his 
slumber, he lived over again. 

Not all are wrapped in the veil of sleep, no mat¬ 
ter how comfortless. From a cot, not far from the 
solitary gas jet, two dark, wide-open eyes are star¬ 
ing at the ceiling. No sleep has come or will come 
to him. A new recruit, but recently arrived, he is 
yet stunned from his descent, while conscience is 
making the last efforts to save him from the fate 
before him. He spends his night by sneering at 
destiny, without once resorting to the best of all 


24 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


relief—^prayer. Though his eyes are open, he is 
blind to all the fleeting shadows born of the flicker¬ 
ing flare, and deaf even to the rasping noises about 
him, for throughout the room, from many, many 
a bed, there comes the sound of a hacking, hollow 
cough—^the herald of a life’s last lapse. 

Often we have our sympathies stirred by a real¬ 
istic tale of prison misery. I do not wish to detract 
one iota from the charity spent on the inmates of 
our jails, but, for one, I can see no more pitiful 
sight about me than this moaning midnight sea of 
sighs and sobs and suffering. The men here have 
sinned only against themselves, and they are here, 
many of them apparently hale, hearty, and intelli¬ 
gent, just because a little cog slipped in their moral 
make-up. 

It is at night, either at his “ hang-out,” or in 
the sitting-room of the lodging house, that we can 
get the true picture of the has-beens.” Then, be¬ 
cause he lives over pieces of his past, you can dis¬ 
cern what he was once. 

Beginning with the afternoon the sitting-room 
becomes crowded with patrons of the lodging 
house. A few play dominoes or checkers, but most 
of them prefer to talk. They form into groups and 
have their own particular corners where they hold 
their nightly meetings. Some weighty matters of 
moment are weighed in their sodden brains, and 
they live in the glory of a soap-bubble importance. 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS’’ 25 

I have often listened to their conversation, and as 
frequently have learned something from them. To 
this very day a group composed of ex-representa¬ 
tives of several professions meets every evening in 
the sitting-room of a fifteen-cent lodging house. 
Of the six, two have been lawyers, one a physician, 
one a brilliant editorial writer, one a professor of 
literature and recognised authority on Shakespeare, 
with several books to his credit; the last, a colonel 
of a Southern regiment during the Civil War, and 
since then president of various banks and cor¬ 
porations. 

Their shabbiness and deep-lined features are not 
noticed by anyone who has an opportunity to listen 
to them. The shafts of wit are brilliant, the re¬ 
partee is swift and caustic, the diction is a model 
of linguistic accomplishment, and one becomes for¬ 
getful of the surroundings and personalities of the 
scene. Yet, in it all, the rightly sounding note is 
missing. They all talk of “ When I was,” “ When 
I had,” or “ When I did ”—all tales of yesterday, 
none of care for the morrow. They live in the 
past; they are blind, deaf, stolid, and indifferent to 
the great glories of the future. They all chat and 
babble of the days behind them, and veritable epics 
of the past are sung. One speaks with awkward 
tenderness of mother, wife, and children, perhaps 
not seen in years, and in his uncouth way he shows 
all the remnant of the better feeling still harboured 


26 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


in his heart. Another, of more material turn of 
mind, tells of the meals and feasts which mother 
“ used to cook,” and which he ‘‘ used to have,” 
when he ‘‘ used to live at home.” 

By every two, or three, or larger group of these 
men of yesterday, the requiem of the ‘‘ has-been ” 
is chanted in its dull minor key. It is not hope¬ 
lessness, or resignation; it is absolute indifference 
which tones the monotony of a ‘‘ has-been’s ” life. 

His first duty of the day is to procure his “ bed- 
money ” for the coming night. After that is ob¬ 
tained he takes chances on his grub.” Of course, 
this only pertains to the “ has-beens ” who have 
absolutely no means of procuring a precarious liv¬ 
ing. They are the men who make the gruesome, 
living statues hanging to lampposts, reclining 
against sunshiny patches of outer walks, with 
dreamy, unseeing eyes, or bleared and befuddled by 
the aftermath of their “ good times ” of the night 
before. 

Again let me emphasise the fact that most of 
these men come from social and intellectual spheres 
far removed from a Bowery level. I know a man 
who, to my personal knowledge, has led the exist¬ 
ence of a ‘‘ has-been ” for twelve years. In all that 
time his appearance has seemingly remained the 
same. If he has changed his hat it must have been 
an exchange of his very old head-covering for one 
just a trifle less old. Winter and summer the same 


REQUIEM OF THE ‘‘HAS-BEENS” 27 

short overcoat hangs upon his gaunt figure. His 
hair and beard are always in the same tangled mass. 
During the day he is not a whit different from other 
tramps or hoboes. Then, his “ bed money ” ob¬ 
tained, he mopes about in morose and sullen silence. 
But with the coming of the artificial glimmer of 
evening, that streams adown the highways, a 
brighter sparkle creeps into his eyes, his form grows 
more erect, and he strides forth to one of those hell- 
kitchens on the Bowery that thrive and ruin and 
brazen in spite of the milk-and-water protests made 
against them at long intervals. There the constitu¬ 
ents of the lowest, the most fearful scum, masquer¬ 
ading in the guise of human beings, pass many 
hours, and, after spending their pittance—mostly 
pennies, watch for some straggling Samaritan in¬ 
clined to keep ablaze the fire of forgetfulness kin¬ 
dled within them. 

This environment, with its reeking stench and 
degraded faces, has become a necessity to the “ has- 
been ” in question. Night after night he sits at the 
soiled table, his listless air of the day supplanted by 
a certain dash of bearing, and speaks and lectures 
to the crowd around him of Greek, Roman, Chal- 
daic, and Hebrew literature and history as he did in 
the days when he was a celebrity in Germany and 
professor at the University of Heidelberg. Chance 
acquaintances of different social shifts have often 
offered him opportunities to put his attainments to 


28 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


good use. First he accepted these offers, but al¬ 
ways returned. Now, when they are made, he only 
smile and gives the stereotyped reply: 

‘‘ I am all right. I sleep, eat, and drink, some¬ 
times and as often as possible—what more do I 
need? My life is the essence of a philosophical 
existence. Fm done with what you call the 
‘ striving life.’ ” 

And there are many, many who, like our pro¬ 
fessor, have attainments, skill, and perfect training 
in their particular professions, and yet they waste, 
and persist in wasting, every minute and hour of 
their lives. They sing and live their requiem, and 
with the selfishness of unfelt misery have lazily 
formed a world within a world for themselves. 

But a few weeks ago I saw a man at a corner of 
Canal Street and the Bowery. I had known him 
for years—a man of not more than thirty-five years, 
of which at least five had been wasted on the Bow¬ 
ery. His position at the moment was character¬ 
istic of his class. It was late in the afternoon. Over 
the houstops the homing sun shone his dull, tired 
farewell after a day of blazing toil. A target for 
the golden rays, the has-been ” stood in the focus 
of their sheen. 

To stand squarely on one’s feet, one must use 
an infinitesimal particle of exertion. Therefore the 
“ has-been,” being what he was, leaned, yes, lay, 
against a lamppost. His hands were in his pockets. 


REQUIEM OF THE ‘‘HAS-BEENS’^ 29 

and his unshaven face was lifted to such an angle 
as also to find a resting-place for a cheek against 
the iron post. His eyes—unseeing eyes—^gazed 
straight into the departing orb of day. 

There was a doubt. Why nof give him the bene¬ 
fit of it? Perhaps, I hoped, instead of idly loafing, 
he was making a determined effort at rehabilitation 
and pledging himself to greet the sinking sun on 
the morrow with the energy of one long ill and 
ailing, but now anxious for work—^glorious, hon¬ 
est work—^with all the desire of a delayed con¬ 
valescence. 

I spoke to him. My question had to be repeated 
three times before he slowly turned his head in my 
direction. He listened to my hopeful expression as 
if I had spoken to him in a foreign tongue. 

“ Don’t you know any better than to talk to me 
of work?” he asked listlessly, without even a 
shadow of anger. “What would I work for? I 
lost the knack of my trade, and, besides, I eat and 
sleep more or less, as it is, so what is the use of 
going back to work? Besides, I would have to 
chase around for about two days before I could 
find a job.” 

The pity, the bitter pity of it is that this is not 
a manufactured speech, formed to illustrate my 
point. It was spoken to me almost verbatim by a 
man skilled in the trade of an engraver, one of 
certainly average intelligence and of normal body. 


I 


30 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


But the mind was one from which normality had 
gone and where nothing reigns but the indifference 
of a has-been.” It is a curse, this indifference. 
Hopelessness, despair, and dissatisfaction entail a 
degree of mental activity—but indifference is like 
a mind’s Sahara without a horizon. 

Do not think me unfeeling or too harsh when I 
speak of the “ has-beens.” I feel for them, and am 
sorry for them; still, I am not blind to their condi¬ 
tion. If there is one point on which I cannot ex¬ 
press myself convincingly, it is on that of how to 
help them. It is a glorious fact that much is done 
on the East Side foi children and young men. 
There are settlements, schools, clubs, and institu¬ 
tions to teach them how to learn and how to play. 
But little is done for the ‘‘ has-been.” 

From Brooklyn Bridge to Cooper Union there 
are only two places’ on the Bowery where religious 
services are held. Both places are doing splendid 
work along their special lines. One is the Bowery 
Branch of the Young Men’s Christian Association. 
Its avowed purpose is to help the man who, through 
some misfortune or mistake, has reached the edge 
of the abyss, to right himself again by the best 
medium possible—^work. A “ has-been,” however, 
is too far gone down the incline to be considered 
a fit subject for the moral instillation* of the Bowery 
Branch. It would not be right to place the recent 


REQUIEM OF THE “HAS-BEENS’^ 31 

arrival on the same level with the seasoned “ has- 
beens.” 

The other place is the famous old Bowery 
Mission, named elsewhere, by me, the Church of 
Sinners. It opens its doors every night for the low¬ 
est of the low. Whatever the ingenuity of Mrs. 
Sarah Bird and Mr. Hallimond can suggest to 
make the evening services more attractive is done. 
But, alas! the main work of this mission is on the 
religious side of the “ has-been’s ” life, for the funds 
are not at hand to help him in any other way. 

Thus the threads of many lives run into hope¬ 
less tangles in this social phase, and you and I 
sorrow, grieve, pity, and pray, perhaps, but what 
else do we do to change the requiem of the “ has- 
been ” into a newer, better song of hope? 


II 


THE HARD LIFE 

S EVERAL occupations in the city are exclu¬ 
sively followed by the has-beens/^ There 
are the sign-carriers ''—^the walking adver¬ 
tisements; the men who distribute circulars and 
pamphlets; barroom cleaners, whose wages are 
generally of a liquid nature; coalmen, who travel 
the streets in search of a ton of coal to be put 
in ’’; the penmen, who grind away at addressing 
envelopes; the lunchmen, who prepare the free 
‘‘ spreads ” in the gin-mills; the firemen, who at¬ 
tend to the fires in the smaller boarding houses; 
the dinner-waiters, who work for two or three 
hours during the rush of noon in down-town 
lunchrooms; and men of other similar and diver¬ 
sified callings. 

The great majority of the has-beens ”—espe¬ 
cially the men of the collars and cuffs—will not 
‘‘ stoop ” to manual labour, but prefer to depend on 
the ‘‘chances” of the great city. This does not 
imply that they steal or beg for a living. However, 
every one of this latter class would steal if it were 
not for the required nerve and courage; and as to 


32 





HE IS SATISFIED TO CARRY A SIGN FOR 
FOOD” 








t 









THE HARD LIFE 


33 


begging, years of the '"hard life” do ultimately 
graduate them into professional mendicancy. But 
in the transitory stage they merely help luck to come 
their way. 

Wall Street, Broadway, and the shopping district 
are favourite localities for ‘‘ making findings.” 
There sidewalks and gutters are carefully watched 
for lost articles. The find ” of one day is likely 
to keep the finder above want for several weeks. 
Then it is not unprofitable to hang about saloons 
frequented by the sporting fraternity. A man who 
has unexpectedly won a considerable amount of 
money without having to work for it is very apt to 
throw some of his change to the birds—or vultures. 
Again, at points of interest to strangers ‘‘has- 
beens ” can always be found. They are exceedingly 
easy of approach, brimful with reliable and inter¬ 
esting information, and are not above accepting a 
small fee for their really valuable services. During 
the theatrical season, too, these men find pleasure 
and profit in “assisting” in great productions re¬ 
quiring many “ supers.” Some but a trifle distant 
from the final 'denouement employ a form of mute 
pleading in front of eating houses or anywhere 
where cheer is the prevailing tone. They flaunt 
their misery, assume a pathetically sad look, and 
are ready, at the slightest provocation, to unroll 
their tale of woe—for a consideration. In short, 
the “has-been” will do anything but work regu- 


34 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


larly and steadily for a full weekly or daily wage. 
He cannot be induced to give up his life of the un¬ 
derworld Bohemia for an existence of real useful¬ 
ness and responsibility. 

A man's presence in a Bowery lodging-house is 
testimony of his irresponsibility, and he who can be 
controlled or restrained by a just responsibility is 
a subject of' ridicule to the ‘‘ has-been," who has 
le^fned h6w easy life can be made—when one 
wants to live it for one's self alone. 

The ‘‘ hard life "—in physical activity—is the 
life of to-day. The day of the moment is lived and 
accepted by itself, without any connecting relations 
to yesterday or to-morrow. In mental activity it 
is the life of yesterday, letting the future take care 
of itself and depending on the echoes of the past 
for its sole relaxation. And that—this abject, 
weak submission to a self-incurred fate—is the real 
hardness of the life. 

To claim that the Bowery makes “ has-beens " is 
an assertion needing qualification. It is probable 
that, were lodging-houses unknown on the Bowery, 
the present standing army of 50,000 would not be 
there—but elsewhere, and together. The spirit of 
gregariousness is rampant among the “ has-beens," 
and they will gather and rally together no matter 
where the tents may be pitched. Also, wherever 
they settle, lodging house, cheap restaurants, and 
low gin-mills—‘‘ dead houses "—will spring up like 


THE HARD LIFE 


35 

mushrooms. Of course, the blame for furnishing 
beds and sitting-rooms for the use of the “ has- 
beens lies with the lodging-house keeper. But 
would you want the men to be shelterless as well 
as homeless? 

Voluntary and involuntary outcasts will be a part 
of the city’s population so long as p’-esent social 
conditions are in force. What, tnen, is offeud 
them by us, the city and citizens? Only a munici¬ 
pal lodging-house, with accommodations for barely 
200, to take care of the scum of over 3,000,000 
people! Beds, bunks, cots—call them what you 
may—can be had on the Bowery for as little as five 
cents a night, and because there are men who have 
lost the faculty of earning, begging, or borrowing 
even that sum, a nocturnal procession of over 10,000 
parades in our streets—winter and summer—from 
midnight until dawn. 

You are inclined to disbelieve my figures? Very 
well, come with me, and I will show you 1000 men 
clamouring, night after night, for entrance to the 
Bowery Mission, where at i a. m. an early break¬ 
fast is served to this 1000 from December until the 
summer months. From there we will go to the 
bread-line ” on Broadway, where several hun¬ 
dreds of these spectres are waiting patiently for 
their loaf of bread given to them by Fleischman’s 
bakery. Schuman’s bakery, with several hundred 
in line, comes next. Then, in the same radius of 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


36 

ten blocks, we will go to the docks and lumber 
yards and find hundreds, huddled like bundles of 
refuse, drowsing in out-of-the-way places. To ac¬ 
cumulate additional proof, we will ask the workers 
in the small bakeshops how many have whined their 
dirge of misery down those basement stairs that 
night. Homeward bound, we will make our way 
across one or two of the smaller parks and find— 
like poisonous weeds—^these creatures clinging to 
every bench. Arrived at home, we will feel de¬ 
pressed, but at breakfast we will be too busy with 
our own affairs to give much thought to the ‘‘ has- 
beens ’’ of old yesterday. 

We cannot turn this question aside, or class it 
under the convenient heading of results of drink.” 
I have met in the ‘‘ hard life ” men who did not 
know the taste of drink, but who, by moral shock 
or in some other way, had their mental balance up¬ 
set and had shot the chutes of fate down to the very 
dregs without offering the least resistance. Stunned 
by their slide, they remained at the bottom long 
enough to become infected with the awful pest of 
deadly lassitude, which kept them to the ground, 
helpless, creeping bacilli in the slime of moral 
neglect. 

Little enough is done for the ‘‘has-beens,” but 
even that would bring occasional results were there 
a mutual desire for rehabilitation. If the man 
whom we would help would work with us in re- 


THE HARD LIFE 


37 


deeming him the task would be possible; but the 
percentage of those who will do this is not worth 
mentioning. Let that germ of the easy “ hard life,” 
of the clubdom of the slums get into the being of a 
man who has landed on the highway of the foolish 
and wicked, and he will fall a ready victim to that 
grasping disease—indifference. 

Not even the Mussulman has a greater indiffer¬ 
ence to the haphazard turns of fate than the man of 
the Bowery who suffers from this indifference. It 
cannot be called hopelessness, because hopelessness 
involves a certain amount of mental activity to real¬ 
ise its existence. It is a drifting, sliding to no¬ 
where. All things of life, the parts of life, come to 
these men in the way of surprises. Their suste¬ 
nance does not depend on their efforts, but merely 
on their ‘‘ luck.” 

What is done to counteract this spreading dis¬ 
ease ? In a number of lodging-house reading-rooms 
the printed cards of St. Augustine Chapel in East 
Houston Street, and of the Broome Street Taber¬ 
nacle, inviting men to the services, are displayed. 
At odd times a well-meaning missionary may in¬ 
vade the sitting-rooms to distribute a number of 
leaflets; and a small band from the Mariners' Tem¬ 
ple holds a brief song-service on Sunday afternoon 
in the sitting-room of the Dakota lodging-house. 
This is all the work for the amelioration of this 
most discouraging social phase that I have seen 


38 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


in my thirty-odd years on the Bowery. Of course, 
there are missions and missionary churches, and the 
men would only have to go to them to be made 
welcome, but- 

We had a “ tough ” winter last year. Work was 
scarce and snow was plentiful. The snow had to be 
removed, which gave work to many. Although 
previous efforts to put “ has-beens to work had 
resulted disastrously, I made arrangements for a 
number of men to shovel snow at fair wages. I 
went from lodging-house to lodging-house, and 
succeeded, eventually, in getting about half of the 
required number of men, and they did not come 
willingly, but had to be coaxed, dragged, and 
driven to work. Yet every sitting-room visited by 
me was packed to suffocation by men who barely 
had money enough for that night's lodging, and 
who should have jumped at the chance of earning 
an honest dollar. Do you think these men will 
find sufficient persuasion in the printed card of a 
church to be drawn to the services? A few might 
be induced to come if you would offer them a cup 
of tea and a sandwich with your sermon- 



; m 

THE BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 

E verything which concerns my own peo¬ 
ple—the people who live in the slums or on 
the Bowery, the Highway of the Foolish 
and Miserable—is my concern by birthright and 
choice. There are other spheres of people, some of 
them ‘‘ worse off,’’ some of them “ better off,” than 
my own, but I am not familiar with them, and it 
is not my custom to discuss or write of things about 
which I am ignorant. 

At the outset I must confess that I am strongly 
biassed in the matter to which I am going to call 
your attention. Some of my opinions, coloured by 
my feelings, may shock you, but the facts I am go¬ 
ing to tell you must believe, because I have either 
witnessed or experienced them. I will go further. 
Read what I shall write, and then, if you can prove 
that I have told a falsehood, I shall be ready, for 
your sake^ for my own, and for that of my fellows 
of the slums, to make all possible reparation. But 
do not come to me with ‘‘ Oh, that can’t be! ” and 
put your sentiment and inclination against the testi¬ 
mony of my eyes and ears. 

39 


40 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


About the time when the wily politician is hus¬ 
tling around for campaign funds, another kind of 
emissary is also busy pleading for funds for carry¬ 
ing on his campaign—the campaign of salvation. I 
do not know which side—ithe religious or the po¬ 
litical—is most successful in attaining its financial 
ends, but I do know that the money secured for 
Christian endeavours is considerable and enough to 
accomplish vast results—if it were properly admin¬ 
istered. 

It is an old and frequently quoted saying that 
New York is the most charitable city in the world. 
While I have no positive proof to that effect, I be¬ 
lieve it to be true, and, also, that the charitably in¬ 
clined are not permitted to deem themselves forgot¬ 
ten. Most religious institutions of a reformatory 
character have authorised canvassers whose daily 
business it is to solicit subscriptions of money. 
These canvassers are paid by a percentage of their 
collections, and those that I know are making an 
exceedingly comfortable living. Besides these finan¬ 
cial agents, institutions, caring for their inmates, 
have canvassers for “ soliciting ” food and every¬ 
thing else needed for the large households. To off¬ 
set this “ soliciting,’’ most of these institutions have 
been asserting for years and years to their boards 
of trustees and directors that they were in fair 
way of becoming self-supporting. One who will 
view the situation carefully will find that, seem- 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 41 

ingly, business sense and Christianity are incom¬ 
patible. This is further emphasised by the few 
splendid exceptions like the Young Men’s Chris¬ 
tian Association. But wherever the work is founded 
on hysterical emotion, it is carried on by incompe¬ 
tents and falls short of accomplishing its purpose 
—the true man-making of the fallen. 

I will yield to no one in my understanding of the 
one grand, sublime motif underlying all the efforts 
made to save my fellow-men from utter perdition; 
and I, as well as you, know that it all is inspired 
by the call of Him who said, “ Come unto me, all 
ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give 
you rest.” But I cannot refrain from pointing out 
to you where the original good intention is often 
twisted by inefficiency, or, alas! sometimes, by worse 
than that—at the expense of the millionaire’s sub¬ 
scription and of the widow’s treasured mite, and at 
the expense of the souls of the hundredths of the 
ninety and nines. 

Let us spend an evening at a mission of the slums. 

The Broadway and Bowery of the Fourth Ward 
is Catherine Street. It runs from Chatham Square 
to the East River, crossing Water and Cherry 
Streets, and is famed for its tough dives. The ward 
itself is so well established in its notoriety that any 
further comment from me is unnecessary. The 
streets of the district are peopled with thugs, petty 
and daring thieves, loafers, and men who are en- 


42 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


deavouring to prolong their existence by living by 
their wits. Along the river, in South Street, hun¬ 
dreds of ’longshoremen hang about when not work¬ 
ing at loading or unloading vessels. In addition, 
the ward has always a quota of transient sailors. 
All these different classes of men are supposed to 
be hurrying along the path to the brimstone region. 
Among them a missionary force should find a great 
field for work, and—there is a mission there. 

It is not a bad-looking building and is much 
neater than its neighbours. The ground floor is 
the meeting-room. The upper floors contain the 
free dispensary and the living-rooms of the ladies 
in charge. These ladies, sweet and refined women, 
are sisters. One is a physician and in charge of 
the dispensary; the other, after having been the 
manager of a restaurant attached to an institution 
uptown, is now the superintendent of the evangeli¬ 
cal work. 

At the time I visited this mission I was a staff 
writer for the New York Herald, and especially 
assigned to ascertain what good—if any—is ac¬ 
complished by these rescue missions in reforming 
the has-beens. It was left to my own option 
whether to make myself known or not. I remained 
incognito, and visited the mission every night for a 
week. 

The exterior of the building was not very attrac¬ 
tively illuminated, so the superintendent stood in 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 43 

front of the door to hand cards of invitation to 
those passing by. Yet this seemed hardly neces¬ 
sary, as the congregation was very prompt and 
quickly filled the not too spacious room as soon as 
the doors were opened. It did not take me long to 
ascertain that the congregation was not drawn from 
the neighbouring slums, but was recruited from the 
Bowery—a mile distant. This is one of the most 
peculiar features about the rescue missions—that 
they do not seem to attract the vicious male element 
of their immediate neighbourhoods, but depend 
mostly on a certain, regular crowd of “ has-beens,’’ 
which is well represented and easily recognised in 
every place where other things besides the Word 
are offered. 

Until the entrance of the superintendent from the 
circular distribution on the sidewalk a form of sing¬ 
ing was kept up. From five to nine hymns were 
sung, and, although about sixty men were present, 
the volume of sound was very disappointing. Half 
of the congregation was asleep, tired from the ef¬ 
fects of travel on the preceding night. 

Eventually the meeting would be opened with 
prayer by one of the old converts—usually the jani¬ 
tor, organist, or care-taker of the Home—desig¬ 
nated by the superintendent. After that would 
come two more hymns, and then the reading of a 
text from the Bible, to be followed with a disserta¬ 
tion on it by some invited friend. Only two of the 


44 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


seven pro tempore speakers heard by me confined 
themselves to interpreting the message of the Gos¬ 
pel ; the others seemed to have unlimited faith in the 
convincing power of their tirades and spoke for 
fully thirty minutes to a room full of sinners— 
about themselves and what they were and had ac¬ 
complished—giving, occasionally, some credit to the 
Creator. After the close of the talk two or three 
more hymns were sung, and then the meeting was 
thrown open for testimonials. I have seen some 
terrible instances of degradation, but it remained 
for a rescue mission to afford me an opportunity of 
observing to what depths some men can sink. 

A feature about these testimonials, which, in my 
humble opinion, should be discouraged, is the en¬ 
ergy with which some of the men tear their past 
characters to pieces. It is emphasised every night 
from every mission platform that our Saviour can 
save each and every sinner, no matter how low or 
wicked, and yet some will fairly gloat over the 
ghoulish incidents of their pasts. I have heard men 
tell of beating their wives, of fighting with stray 
dogs and cats for the scraps of refuse barrels for 
food, of being driven to the edge of insanity by the 
vermin on their bodies, and of other nauseating 
things, to make the contrast between “ thenand 
now ” greater. I have also heard many ‘‘ amens ” 
and ‘‘ hallelujahs ’’ come from the platform and the 
congregation as an accompaniment to these tales of 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 45 

horror. Is there any real necessity for all this 
hysteria? Is it wise to encourage these men in 
whining about their past sinful days? There is 
still a shred of manhood left in some of the men 
listening to those testimonies, and they will not feel 
stirred or moved by such alluring vistas. If the 
echo of that call for the heavy-laden cannot bring 
sinners to His feet, the telling of those Dantesque 
narratives will never do it. 

After the testimonies came the ‘‘ invitation,” 
extended by the organist. Its leading strain was, 
Stop drinking, become one of us, and you will eat 
oftener than you do now, will wear cleaner linen, 
and, perhaps, get a job.” The superintendent, who 
had occupied a seat in the rear of the room, went 
out into the street before the invitation closed with, 
‘‘Who’ll be the first to come forward?” 

It was always hard to decide who was the first 
to go forward. They fairly rushed to the seats re¬ 
served for the unconverted. When I first saw this 
a thrill went through me. I had sat through a most 
dispiriting meeting. Nothing of convincing force 
or breathing the spirit of brotherly love had been 
uttered, and yet these men were changed in a twin¬ 
kling from lethargic, sleepy drowsers into fervid 
seekers after true righteousness. But alas! this im¬ 
pression was not permitted to last long. 

While the sinners were arranging themselves in 
kneeling positions along the front row of chairs. 


46 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


the organist stepped from the platform and began 
to turn out the lights and to open the windows to 
let the putrefied air escape. To do this he had to 
pass through the aisles and was buttonholed by the 
men who had testified. He knew most of them by 
name and handed each a small card entitling the 
bearer to the use of a bed for one night at the 
Home. A .few who had not testified also pressed 
forward and begged for tickets, but were invited to 
get out as quickly as possible. With the remainder 
of the tickets in his hand, the organist then ap¬ 
proached the sinners, still on their knees in ex¬ 
pectant silence. 

They had been undisturbed until then. No one 
had spoken a word to them. An old convert who 
had spoken feelingly of the “ poor sinners—God 
bless them! I was once one of them ’’—was stand¬ 
ing close beside the row of sinners, wrapping him¬ 
self in his snug overcoat. I felt that he would step 
to the nearest man kneeling and say: ‘‘ Brother, let 
us shake hands; I am poor, but I have Christ. I 
have learned to love Him and am ready to help you 
in your first steps in His path. Let me welcome 
you into the new and better life.’’ 

But no; not a word escaped him, and with a self- 
satisfied smirk he. went on his homeward way. 
Why were those men left so entirely to themselves ? 
Were the missionaries unfeeling and neglectful, or 
did they know of the true motive of those men on 


t 













i.' 


*.l 







WITH A TICKET BEFORE HIM. CAN YOU NOT GUESS HIS ANSWER?” 



BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 47 

their knees? Neither answer can be very flattering 
to the missionaries. 

When the organist got to the front row he 
stepped from one to another, and, after touching 
them on the shoulder, scrutinised their features. 
How he formed his judgment I do not know, as 
his only inquiry was ‘‘ Do you want to be a Chris¬ 
tian?’’ 

The man questioned would see before him the 
ticket, saving him from a night in the streets, 
and—can you not guess his answer? 

As soon as the last ticket had been given out, 
the organist spoke again. That’s all for to-night. 
The rest of you’ve got to go home.” It was merely 
a figure of speech, for he did not mean to be ironi¬ 
cal ; but their homes—why, they were forfeited long 
ago—and their brethren who had obtained shelter 
for the night had done so by the most fearful of 
lies—^by selling their souls for a night’s rest. 

The splendid, well-meaning woman who gives 
so much to the support of this mission attends there 
once a week, and then, by a peculiar coincidence, 
everything and everybody brighten up. The super¬ 
intendent forsakes her seat in the rear and joins 
the guests on the platform, the hymns are played 
and sung with greater swing, the testimonies are 
more elaborated—most of them containing a refer¬ 
ence to the patroness on the platform—and even 
more gas jets are lighted. But the men, the sin- 


48 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


ners, are there for the same purpose as usual—to 
be “ saved ’’ by the bribe of ‘a bed-ticket. 

At the end of my investigation I sought official 
corroboration. I spoke to the organist. 

‘‘ Do you think the men are really converted by 
one night’s service such as this? Can a single 
shower of rain change a leopard’s spots? ” 

‘‘ I’m afraid you’re not a Christian,” was his 
smiling reply, without an effort to convert me. 
‘‘ Why, of course they are converted. There is 
enough in that blessed Book ”—^he pointed at the 
Bible on the platform—“ to convert the whole 
world.” 

He spoke a glorious truth; still, on that evening, 
just eleven words had been read to us as a text 
from the Book. 

“ Why don’t you give tickets to some of the 
other men ? ” 

“ Because they’re not saved yet. We’ve got to 
look out for our young Christians first.” 

He pointed to the men who had just risen from 
the penitent form. 

“ How do you know that these men are Chris¬ 
tians now?” 

“ Because they came forward and knelt down.” 

“ Oh, I see. And will they get tickets to-morrow 
night?” 

“ Yes, if they are still Christians and have not 
fallen into temptation.” 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 49 

‘‘ But how will you know whether they are Chris¬ 
tians or not? 

“ If they’re Christians, they’ll testify.” 

I passed into the street and encountered the su¬ 
perintendent, to whom I introduced myself. 

“ Would you like to tell me something about your 
work here?” I asked. 

‘‘ I am afraid I cannot. You see, Mrs. B- 

is really the only supporter of this mission, and, 
naturally, receives regular reports concerning it. 
You should interview her. It would be more tact¬ 
ful, and she is a splendid lady and will give you 
all the necessary information.” 

There is no doubt about it, but Mrs. B-only 

sees the mission once a week, and has no other 
means of information than those reports; and re¬ 
ports, like statistics, are poor, feeble things. I 
would not like to be misunderstood in this matter, 
but in the pursuit of saving men’s souls frankness 
has a rightful province. 

The statistics of Christian work are very satis¬ 
factory in their numerical strength, at first glance. 
A record of the conversions is kept by every mis¬ 
sion and other organisation given to the rescuing 
of men. Foot up the grand totals of these records 
and you will be in duty bound to conclude that New 
York City is absolutely free from sinners and the 
very borderland of heaven. Yet the statistics are 
technically correct. 




50 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


There is that despicable and numerous mob of 
“ mission-workers,” every member of which is con¬ 
verted many times a month, making a round trip 
of all the missions in the city, to begin all over again 
when the circuit is completed. Then there are the 
many, many “ backsliders,” who “ fall ” at the least 
approach of temptation, to return to their whining 
and self-accusation at the same old stand, as soon 
as their debauch is over. I heard a man say in his 
testimony that he had fallen ” fourteen times, and 
had “ come home ” again as many times in the same 
mission. Every one of these cases is recorded, in 
addition to the sincere conversions, and helps to 
swell the total. 

This brings us to a delicate phase. 

I have heard it said, time and time again, that a 
man’s soul—be he tramp or millionaire—is price¬ 
less, and it is because I believe it to be true that 
I am willing to brave your criticism. We have no 
scruples in speaking our minds about politics, labour 
affairs, commercial situations, or anything else that 
is of moment to us, but we are afraid to speak and 
to see straightly the things which are veiled by the 
mantle of self-made righteousness. Yet they are 
the most important matters, because they concern 
men’s souls, and criticism is allowable because the 
cap need be worn only by those whom it fits. 

The public side of mission work can be seen by 
all; the nether side is seen only by few. I have 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 51 

peeped behind the scenes and find that human na¬ 
ture is very much the same everywhere. When 
one has a good job he hates to lose it. Leaders of 
missions receive fair salaries and are expected to 
show results in return for them. Converts must 
be made, and that they are made can only be 
proved by the number of testimonies. This puts 
a premium on testimonies, and this is noticed by 
those contemptible rascals, the “ mission sharks,’' 
a kind of men possessed of a certain glibness and 
familiarity with Bible texts. This narrows itself 
down to the deduction that they who speak well and 
often receive much encouragement, including bed- 
tickets, meal-tickets, and cast-off clothing, while the 
less gifted and less cheeky convert—although, per¬ 
haps, more sincere than the other—receive less. 
I am not speaking at random and am prepared to 
be challenged. 

The fact of the matter is that the system is super¬ 
annuated and needs revising. It has fallen into a 
rut and has become the refuge of a lot of incompe¬ 
tents, who, after failing at everything else, are put 
into this business, the most important in the world, 
by influential friends or tired relatives. The bright 
men among the evangelists cannot confine them¬ 
selves to missions in the slums, but feel “ calls ” to 
speak to the masses en masse, and the slave of the 
slum has to be satisfied with the outpourings and 
converting experiments of mediocrities. 


52 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


These things seem incongruous to my people. 
Uptown, from where the good come to visit the 
slums, are beautiful churches, beautiful singing, and 
beautiful sermons, preached by men trained for 
their calling—students, orators, and thinkers— 
bringing to their work brilliant intellects and other 
qualifications. They are well equipped to bring the 
Gospel nearer to their congregations. And yet 
their congregations are the good and righteous, 
understanding the Word, while the sinners are 
downtown. 

A well-known educational authority told me 
that it requires more science and knowledge to 
teach a kindergarten properly than to be a college 
professor. If that is so, why does the kindergar¬ 
ten of salvation fare so poorly? The missions 
are mostly makeshift, dingy meeting-places with 
wretched song services, and the Word is twisted 
into the most grotesque interpretations by faddists 
in evangelical speaking, who find there their only 
tolerant territory. And they who are expected to 
be attracted by this are of warped, but not always 
of primitive minds. Yes, I know of the great 
power of the Word, but why make it so attractive 
to those who know it and so unattractive to those 
who do not know it, or have forgotten it? Medi¬ 
cine cannot be taken by some unless it comes in 
sugar-coated pills: of such are my people, and they 
are sick in mind and heart of their sin. You send 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 53 

us well-trained men and women to educate our 
minds. Why do you not apply the same standard 
to those whom you send to save our souls ? 

A large percentage of the leaders of missions are 
men with records. Some, in their testimonies, tell 
of the time when they rolled around in the gutter 
in drunken stupor; others relate how criminal they 
have been in and out of prison. The note of shiver¬ 
ing agony and misery is ever present, while the 
glad message of salvation is given with uncon¬ 
vincing lukewarmness. There is a place for these 
men—these personal-calamity howlers—in the 
work, but they should not be leaders. The lower 
classes have heard rumours about the universally 
awakened progress along intellectual lines, and they 
are craving for it. Their lives have made them 
exceedingly practical, and spectacular methods have 
no more than temporary effect on them. They do not 
want freak methods and horrible examples.^' They 
want to find the true, direct way, and while looking 
for it anxiously, want it shown intelligently. There 
has been a lot of tomfoolery and very little common 
sense given to the slum people in every field of 
endeavour for years, but that day is past, and they 
rightly demand now to be considered human beings 
with powers of feeling and understanding. 

At this writing I have before me an authorised 
interview, published in the Evening World of Sep¬ 
tember 25, in which Commander F. St. George 


54 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


de L. Booth-Tucker of the Salvation Army told of 
his intention to forestall John Alexander Dowie’s 
invasion of the Bowery, and pledged himself to 
save the people of the Highway of the Foolish and 
Miserable in nine days. I quote from it to show 
the tenor of the whole. 

Sensationalism will dominate it from start to finish, and the 
finish will be the most sensational of the whole nine days. 

It will be a procession of the Army’s hosts from one end of 
the Bowery to the other during the afternoon of October 4. 
At the head of this procession twelve of the strongest soldiers 
of the Army will bear upon their shoulders a coffin. In the 
coffin will be a living man. When the Bowery has been trav¬ 
ersed from end to end the coffin will be carried into Miner’s 
Bowery Theatre, and there all the ceremonies attending a 
regular funeral will be observed. 

Then Commander Booth-Tucker will preach his most pow¬ 
erful sermon of the week, his subject being “Buried Alive.” 

Then there will be the “Jersey Lily.” He is a man of great 
personality, who at present is in charge of our Labor Bureau, 
and his words cannot fail to carry great weight with those 
who hear him. 

Others who will testify to the disadvantages of a life on the 
Bowery from every standpoint, are “ Scottie,” an old-time 
saloon-keeper; the “ Tammany Tiger,” one of Tammany Hall’s 
old-time spellbinders; the “Harrisburg Tomato,” one of the 
greatest speakers New York has ever heard; the “Happy 
Irishman,” who can make more bulls and exemplify more 
common sense than any other man in America, and the “ Cali¬ 
fornia Golden Minstrel.” 

This last is the very sweetest singer New Yorkers ever 
heard, and we are confident that his melody, backed by the 
eloquence and convincing arguments of our speakers, will win 
many souls to Christ and make Dowie’s visit on the Bowery 
one without reason or necessity. 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 55 

My personal opinion concerning the methods of 
the Salvation Army may not be of great impor¬ 
tance, but I can recollect other promises and pledges 
of like nature, and still the Bowery is as it was, 
and the slums are weltering in their sin. I was 
born in the slums—Commander Booth-Tucker 
was not—and I know that only systematic efforts 
bear fruit, and not the cymbal and bass drum of 
an emotional wave. There is work to be done in 
the slums, but it must be quiet, hard work, without 
hurrahs. Speaking of work, I feel convinced that 
in that lies the result and non-result of many re¬ 
formative and rescuing organisations. 

God will abundantly bless any undertaking which 
has for its foundation good Christian sense, and He 
preaches with His word the gospel of honest toil. 
I still hold to it—because it has not yet been dis- 
proven, although I made this assertion a long time 
ago—that there is work for everybody who can 
work and wants it. If a man, through his help¬ 
lessness, finds himself penniless, he needs, first of 
all, honest work and honest pay to rekindle his 
self-reliance. Were this recognised, the missions 
would be rescue missions indeed. But what is 
done? Nothing is done for him, until he lowers 
himself to degrading, and often imaginary, depths 
of sin, to be saved from them by perfunctory 
workers. After that he is kept balancing between 
actual want and modified need. If eventually work 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


56 

is given to him, it is of the “odd-job’’ order, and 
mostly paid for by meals or bed-tickets. He be¬ 
comes a dependent creature and recognises quickly 
that he is not trusted by his fellow-Christians. 
It is an old saying among the “has-beens” that 
Christians are exacting taskmasters and poor 
payers. 

Would it not be better to draw distinctions? If 
a man comes to the mission for food or clothing, 
needy through lack of work, give him the chance 
to earn what he needs. If he comes because his 
burden of sin is heavy on him and throws himself 
at the bleeding feet of Christ, crying, “ Save me. 
Master, I have sinned,” be you the first to lift him 
from his knees and to lead him to the ever-ready 
fount. Let this distinction be observed and a lot 
of hypocrisy will remain unused. Do not try to 
purchase a man’s soul with a free ticket. 

The distinction can be made successfully. Great 
work is done by the Bowery Branch of the Young 
Men’s Christian Association. There are an em¬ 
ployment bureau, dormitories, and a restaurant. 
If you need work, you can go to the employment 
bureau; if you are hungry or homeless, Mr. Honey- 
man, the secretary, will provide for you. He will 
help you not only for a day, but until you can shift 
for yourself, or else prove yourself unworthy of help. 
No condition of conversion is imposed. But you 
must work for your bed and your meal. Meetings 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 57 

are held every night, and the unfortunate or sinful 
one who hears the testimonies given there will not 
hear them many times before a glowing desire will 
come to him to be also one of the bright-eyed, clean- 
cut men who were helped to help themselves out of 
temporary holes, and who can now tell of it in all 
manliness, without whining or crawling, giving 
God all the glory. 

Then there is my old “hang-out,” the dear old 
Bowery Mission, the stanch old Church of Sinners. 
Here they offer you the Word—nothing else— 
but very intelligently and cheerfully, amid suitable 
surroundings, with splendid music. (I am not a 
stickler for ritualism, but only for fitness.) Con¬ 
stantly it is proved there that true righteousness 
brings its own reward. When the invitation is 
given there, they come forward and find good, lov¬ 
ing friends to pray with them, put their arms 
around them, and bid them good-night when they 
leave, some for their lodging-house cots, some for 
the long, nocturnal journeys in the streets. It is 
different when Mrs. Mary Bird is there. Long ago 
she was named the “ Mother of the Bowery,” and, 
as she says, “ I can’t let my sons be in want, when 
I have plenty.” But—^bless you!—she gives to all, 
Christian and sinner alike, and to be in want is 
the only plea necessary with her. 

I know a man who was saved in the Bowery 
Mission, and who “carried the banner”—^walked 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


58 

the streets at night—without a murmur for ten 
days after his salvation. 

I wanted Christ, not a bed-ticket,’’ was his an¬ 
swer when I asked him about it. Truly he was a 
Spartan Christian. 

Brother John G. Hallimond, the Bowery Mission 
can’t spare you, but it would be a good thing for 
the other rescue missions if you could show them 
how the Word can make converts, irrespective of 
bed-tickets. 

Good, square, sincere men have been reclaimed 
in the Bowery Mission through the test of honest 
work at honest pay, and God does not want the 
man who will not work. 

The wreckage of salvation is darkened by many 
dreary ruins. As told before, much money is 
always available for Christian work, but the right 
spirit seems scarce. 

Long ago a home for ex-convicts was started by 
a man named Dunn. It flourished for a while, then 
died a lingering death. Now New York is the only 
one of the great cities that has not a refuge for men 
released from prison. A home for ex-convicts is 
maintained by the Volunteers, but it is “ an un¬ 
known quantity,” the public not being permitted to 
know anything about it. Inspection of it or in¬ 
formation concerning it was flatly refused me at 
the Volunteer headquarters. 

In East Twenty-sixth Street is a group of build- 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 59 

ings owned by the Fruit and Flower Mission. Once 
there was life and work there for redeemed men, 
but the valuable property seems sleepy and drowsy 
now. This is not meant as a reflection on the hos¬ 
pital work conducted by the mission. 

Several missions tried to furnish work for their 
converts by starting broom shops. However, al¬ 
though the men were paid only twenty-five and 
fifty cents a week, they always had a deficit at the 
end of the year and were finally discontinued as 
being financial failures. This was in spite of the 
fact that they were getting better prices for their 
wares, and had a better market—opened for them 
by sentiment—than outside manufacturers. There 
are wrecks all along the shore, giving plenty of 
opportunities to “ calamity-howlers.” 

Perhaps you would also class me among the 
croakers. I hope ypu will not, because I should 
fervently resent it. I want to be perfectly fair, 
and am willing to admit much. Every mission does 
good and is an influence for good. Every agency 
that gives a bed or a meal to one of my needy 
fellows is welcomed by me, provided it uplifts in¬ 
stead of distorting manhood. What I am com¬ 
plaining about is that much of the money which 
is sent to the rescue of the slums is wasted, not 
so much by intent as by ignorance. If a man gives 
me a hundred dollars to help you and I buy you 
a five-dollar pair of shoes, I help you, but not 


6 o 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


according to the degree of the giver^s intention. 
There is a lot of discriminate and indiscriminate 
dispensing of charity by missionaries, and some of 
the discriminate is sinisterly tinged. 

Remedies for these cancers on the long-suffering 
body of Charity should not be hard to find. Cen¬ 
tralise material relief; scatter the Word. Draw 
distinctions between the two in every place where 
the work in done in His name. You, rich and 
free givers, give not only your money, but also 
your thought and cooperation. Never was the 
time more auspicious than now for work in this 
vineyard, for the soil is ready. Do not come to 
the tune of tam-tams and trumpets, but come to 
quietly follow His command, Go ye and labour.” 

Yes, and a hundred times yes, I am biassed and 
bitter, because I know there are men and women 
who would “ try God's way ”—it has come to that 
—but they are frightened away by the hovering 
shams and cheats. I have asked men to go to 
missions, and they have answered: “No, we don’t 
want to have anything to do with ‘ fakes.’ ” 

Think of it! “ Fake ” coupled with work for 

God! You will throw up your hands in horror at 
this, but you have always been more ready to con¬ 
demn than to help your fellow, the slave of the 
slum. r 

Even one, a unit, can contain a great dynamic 
force. Were I a missionary, I would prefer mak- 


BURDEN OF THE HEAVY-LADEN 6i 


ing ONE Christian to making a thousand converts, 
and I feel sure I could convince my financial pa¬ 
trons that their money was not ill spent. That one 
Christian, by his personality and example, would 
be a living witness and the greatest means of bring¬ 
ing others to Him. Numbers do not count with 
the loving Shepherd who went out to the moun¬ 
tains wild and bare to gather home the one—just 
one—the hundredth of His sheep. 


IV 


THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 
SF’T it fierce to have to hang* out in a place 



like this?” 


My companion expected no answer to 


his question. The answer was all about us. 

We were in Nick’s on Bayard Street. To classify 
the place, to give it its proper appellation, is no easy 
task. Those who know the least about it or its like 
would call it a “ low drinking place,” or “ common 
resort.” A dominie went so far as to describe it as 
“ one of the present people’s clubs, destined to re¬ 
main in existence until proper clubs shall be estab¬ 
lished where the poor can partake of light beer and 
kindred refreshments amidst cheerful surround¬ 


ings.' 


“ Nick’s Dead-House ” and ‘‘ The Morgue ” 
were our names for the place—and we knew it 
pretty well. 

Smut was everywhere. It was on the floor, the 
walls, the ceiling; in the clothes, faces, and speech 
of the men, and only the devil knows what sort of 
stuff was in our ‘‘ tubs,” parading as beer, befud¬ 
dling, and even killing, men as fast as the other 
rot-gut ”—five-cent whisky. 


62 


THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 63 


We were there, not because we had any clubable 
desires, but because we had to be there. There 
were fires within us, and wherever the most for the 
least was given, there we—and all the brethren of 
the burning thirst—could be found. 

Pasts are queer things. For some you never 
grow weary of delving into memory and, when re¬ 
called and before you in the mellowed haziness of 
time, you live them over again and again, and smile 
the happy smile of remembrance. You laugh at 
the silliness of your happiness and spend long mo¬ 
ments in trying to recollect some little detail, unim¬ 
portant, yet of consequence, it, too, having been 
part of that business. And there are the other 
pasts that you cannot forget—that will not be for¬ 
gotten—that put you in a mood where the philan¬ 
thropy of the whole world is outweighed by the 

dead-house’s ” gift—the blessing of oblivion. 

Again—it was unnecessary for me to answer my 
companion’s question. 

We were not old acquaintances. For the last 
two nights we had been neighbours in the lodging 
house, occupying adjoining bunks. The common 
motive made us meet in Nick’s, and, as customary 
among the sodden, we sat together to travel jointly 
into forgetfulness. 

Receiving our tubs ” from the greasy bartender, 
we chose a table near the door so that everybody 
entering could see us and could be seen by us. 


64 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


‘‘ Tub houses ” have their own, weird fascination, 
and, should any of the patrons get away from the 
environment for a time, they cannot bury all the 
remembrance of it, but will—for a day or a week— 
return to this most gruesome Bohemia. These 
prodigals always have money to show off and to 
treat their friends, and an army is always ready to 
receive them with open arms. That is why we sat 
near the door. 

We drank our first “ tub ” in silence. Ordering 
another, our finances were examined. The prospect 
was horrible—only the price of one more. 

The other, being less accustomed to the effects of 
the ‘‘ tub,” started on the foolish road with his sec¬ 
ond glass. His mood was retrospective, threaten¬ 
ing the unloading of confidences. 

“ Seven o’clock, and only one more beer between 
now and bed-time/’ he growled. ‘‘It’s fierce to 
think of it.” 

“ What time do you go to bed ? ” I asked. 

“ Well, drunk or sober, I hate to crawl under the 
blankets before ten or eleven. It don’t make much 
difference to-night, though. I’m spending my bed 
money now.” 

He laughed at his paradoxical fate. 

We drank slowly and smoked, and then the other 
spoke again. 

“ I don’t mind carrying the banner and walking 
the streets for a night, if it wasn’t for the things a 


THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 65 

fellow thinks about, tramping from one end of the 
town to the other.” 

I knew he was about to tell me a few chapters 
from his life, and, not wishing to encourage him too 
much—for we all have troubles of our own—I made 
no reply. 

‘‘ Only to think that less than two years ago I 
didn’t know there were such places and such stuff 
as this,” he continued. “ And now Fm kicking be¬ 
cause I can’t get enough of it. It’s fierce! ” 

“ Are you only two years on the bum ? ” I asked, 
simulating interest. 

‘‘ That’s all, and don’t you think it’s long enough 
to be carrying the banner, or sleeping in them ten- 
cent bunks, and getting your chuck either in a five- 
cent beanery or at some basement door? And noth¬ 
ing to drink only ‘ tubs ’ ? ” * 

‘‘ Well, if you feel that bad about it, why don’t 
you quit being on the bum ? ” 

“Yes, why don’t I? Why don’t you or any of 
us?” he sneered. “None of us knows what it is, 
but once you get down this far, something goes out 
o’ you and you’re stuck for good. And then they 
holler, ‘ It’s drink, the demon of rum,’ that’s the 
cause of it.” 

“Well, if it ain’t rum, what is the cause of it?” 

The contents of his glass were decreased before 
he answered. 

“ It’s women! ” he cried. “ They’re the cause of 


66 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


bringing most of us fellows down to this. I don’t 
mean that we got to be wife-beaters or anything like 
that. Most of us been as straight as they make 
them. But, all of a sudden, it’s either the wife, or 
some other woman, and you go out of your head, 
and then, and not before, it’s drink and a wind-up 
in jail or on the bum.” 

I looked at the spectre, unkempt and bleary, and 
searched in vain for a remaining trace of a ro¬ 
mantic tragedy. 

Do you mean to tell me that a woman started 
you on the road to perdition ? ” 

“ That’s what she did.” 

Then I knew that he intended to tell me his 
story. 

He half-carried the ‘‘ tub ” to his lips, but put it 
down again, and stared at some flies flirting with 
a pool of the stuff in the centre of the table. 

I was making good wages and thought I’d get 
married. One day, three years later, I got caught 
in the belt of my machine and this old arm o’ mine 
got twisted out o’ joint.” He held up his palsied 
limb with a movement typical of mendicants. 
‘‘ Some o’ them wanted me to sue the company; 
but the super came ’round to see me, and, when I 
got well again, he gave me a job as night watch¬ 
man. There was less money in that than working 
at the bench, but it was easy, and I had mostly all 
day to myself.” 


THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 67 

“Didn’t you sleep in the daytime?” 

He smiled at my ignorance. 

“ I can see you never been a nightwatchman! 
A man who can’t get enough naps during the night 
ain’t got no right to be a watchman. Of course, 
once in a while, a man has to lie down in his bed 
with all his clothes off, but that is for health and 
not for rest, because he gets all the rest he needs 
at night.” 

I nodded comprehendingly. 

“ Well, everything was lovely till the wife began 
to kick about having less money to keep the house 
than when I was at the machine, and the first thing 
I knew we had a boarder, a fellow that was work¬ 
ing over at the shop.” 

Before a new chapter was begun, we finished our 
beer and called to Nick for “ two more.” 

“ This is our last,” he commented, when Nick 
placed the two “ tubs ” before us, “ and I got such 
a thirst on me I could drink a keg dry. It’s no use 
o’ talking, it’s fierce to come to this, and you’ll say 
the same after you hear what happened. Here’s 
happy days.” • 

We took deep draughts before returning to his 
story. 

“ So that fellow was boarding with us for sev¬ 
eral months, and I was glad that the old woman 
stopped her kicking when-” 

“ I think you were foolish to give up all that,” I 



68 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


interrupted. ‘‘You're fit enough even to-day to be 
a night watchman." 

His recollection was taking hold of him, and he 
drank again to see the past with better ease. 

“ That's true enough. I could do my work all 
right, even if I got a touch of rheumatism; but it’s 
a funny game^ this keeping boarders." 

“ What do you mean ? " 

“ I don't know how smart you are," he remarked, 
somewhat disdainfully, “ but I guess you’ll under¬ 
stand this all right. One night I had a worse touch 
of the rheumatiz than ever before, and the super, 
happening to be still in the office, put a man in my 
place and let me go home." 

The mask of indifference fell and the fiend was 
disclosed. 

“ And they didn’t expect me at home! ” 

He almost emptied his glass. 

“ What did you-?" 

“ I had the rheumatiz, he didn't, and he got away 
before I could choke him like a rat. I wanted to 
kill him and her, but she, too, got away on me be¬ 
fore I—but wait.” 

The last drops of the beer were fairly sucked 
from the bottom of the “ tub." 

“ Then everything went to the dogs. I didn't 
care what happened, and-” 

“Ever seen either of them again?" 

“ No, and her I don't want to see again—what’s 




THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 69 

the use? ” he spoke growlingly. “ And him—him? 
—I been following that hound all these years. 
Wherever I heard he was I went. I tramped and 
begged from town to town, and sometimes was so 
close to him that I only missed him by a few hours. 
And now I been hanging ’round here, because I 
know he’s here, and, sooner or later. I’ll meet him, 
and then—then-” 

He paused so long that I felt constrained to ask, 
‘‘ What would you do to him ? ” 

“ What would I do to him ? ” he howled. “ What 
would I do to him? Look at me! I’m dirty and 
filthy, a bum and a tramp, and that sneaking cur 
helped to make me that! What would I do to him ? 
I ain’t as strong as I used to be, but if that skunk 
was to come here this minute, I’d kill him! I’d tear 
him! I’d—I’d—I’d kill him! and, after, they can 
hang me or do what they like with me.” 

His manner of expression and intonation, not for¬ 
getting the scenic environment, had put me in melo¬ 
dramatic rapport, and, as the door opened to ad¬ 
mit another brother of the burning thirst, I hoped 
he would prove to be the villain come to receive his 
just deserts. 

The newcomer was of shifty look. His roving 
eyes examined every face in the room as he slouch- 
ingly passed our table on his way to the bar. He 
drank his beer hanging to the railing of the counter, 
and the glances he shot across to our table and to 



70 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

the ex-nightwatchman primed me for further de¬ 
velopments. 

My companion had fallen to brooding. I ascribed 
his sullen humour to the bitterness of his awakened 
past, but his next speech proved me wrong and 
showed that the awkwardness of the present was 
not to be outweighed. 

“ Say, you’re a good fellow. You know Nick 
better’n I do. Try and ‘ hang him up ’ for two 
‘ tubs ’ until to-morrow, will you ? I’m sure of fifty 
cents for putting in a ton o’ coal to-morrow, and 
I’ll pay him. Go ahead, will you ? ” 

My answer camfe without hesitancy. 

‘‘ I will not. You know Nick wouldn’t trust his 
own father for a beer, and, besides, I had all I 
want.” 

“ Oh, you had all you want, did you ? ” he 
shouted. ‘‘ Well, then I’m damned if I don’t try 
him mys’elf, and just for one, for myself.” 

Unsteadily he rose from his chair and slunk to 
the bar. 

The newcomer had watched the ex-nightwatch¬ 
man with cat-like attention. Now, as he saw my 
companion approach the bar, against which he was 
still leaning, he made as if to move away. But the 
temporary impulse was checked and drunken bra¬ 
vado made him hold his post. And so he heard the 
other’s whining appeal for “just one, Nick, just 
one—until to-morrow.” 


THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 71 

Sure, I trust,’’ said Nick, who had a reputation 
as a humorist, and pointed at the sign behind him, 
which bore this facetious legend: 

‘LWE TRUST—TO-MORROW.” 

My companion was obstinate and hated to take 
the refusal. Prompted by the unholy craving of 
his poisoned stomach, he had rehearsed this scene 
time and again, and could plead, beg, and cajole 
with a great output of emotion; but—^to-night at 
least—it was in vain, and, like a whipped mongrel, 
he returned to the table. 

‘‘ What do you think o’ that ? ” he challenged 
me, forgetting our recent difference. “ I ain’t even 
good for a ‘ tub ’ o’ this dirty, rotten stuff no more! 
And I must have another drink, pal, I must. It’s 
all burning inside of me. Don’t you know of any 
way? I ain’t got nothing; I couldn’t even get a 
nickel for all the rags on my back. And I’d sell my 
soul for a drink just now, honest, I would. I’d do 
anything on the calendar for a-” 

‘‘What’s the matter?” 

The newcomer had made his way to our table. 

“ What d’you kicking about ? ” he asked the ex- 
nightwatchman. “ If you want a beer, why don’t 
you go and get it ? ” 

“ I ain’t got the price,” answered the other de¬ 
spondently. 


72 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ So you ain^t got the price, eh ? ” 

The newcomer was feeling his way and becom¬ 
ing more assured with every turn. 

No, I ain’t got the price,” reiterated my com¬ 
panion, “ and I don’t think you got it either.” 

“ What, I ain’t got it ? ” the newcomer laughed 
cynically and pulled his hand, filled with small coin, 
from his pocket. “ D’you see this ? D’you think 
there’s the price of a couple o’ beers in this hand¬ 
ful?” 

The eyes of the ex-nightwatchman shone with 
the fire of rapacity. 

“Would you?—do you-” he stammered. 

“Sure, I will,” affirmed the newcomer; “here’s 
a nickel; go and get yourself a 'tub.’ ” 

Like a conquering hero, my companion went to 
the bar and ordered his drink with elaborate 
haughtiness. I took this opportunity to ask the 
newcomer my question. Yes, he was the man. 

The ex-watchman returned with his foaming 
“ tub ” and, hoping for more to follow, wanted to 
seat himself beside his new friend. But I felt an 
approaching crisis, and, wishing to postpone it, if 
not able to prevent it, I moved my chair between 
the two men. 

The new friend was a master of refined torment. 
Instead of replacing the money taken from his 
pocket, he kept it tantalisingly displayed in his dirty 
palm. He j ingled the handful of coin with a clink- 



THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 73 

ing, rasping refrain. Even while he spoke, the 
dimes and nickels were dancing, making weird ac¬ 
companiment to his speech and fascinating the 
gloating fool on the other side of the table. 

They gave the customary toast, an^d then the new¬ 
comer leaned over the table, after slyly winking 
at me. 

“ Don’t you know me no more ? ” he asked the 
ex-watchman. 

A pair of bleary eyes peeped at the questioner 
from an approaching ecstasy of stupefaction. 

The answer was the usual bit of tub-house polite¬ 
ness. 

‘‘ There’s something familiar about you, but I 
can’t place you.” 

I must have changed more than I thought I 
had,” laughed the capitalist. Anyway, let’s have 
another drink.” 

The ex-watchman gulped the last of his beer and 
listened to the jingling of the dancing coin till the 
replenished glasses were put on the table. To Nick 
the stranger made the welcome announcement that 
he intended to stay there until the last cent was 
Spent. My companion, feeling himself included in 
this, trembled with ill-suppressed pleasure. 

So you don’t remember me?” asked the new¬ 
comer again. 

“ No,” answered the other, fast giving in to the 
influence of the stuff. “Where was it we met?” 


74 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


The stranger stretched across the table, bringing 
his face within a few inches of the other’s. 

“ Now, look at me close.” 

The sodden thing struggled to come to the bor¬ 
der of intelligence. The ex-watchman stared and 
scowled into every line and crevice of the face be¬ 
fore him, and, at last, he knew. 

It was my cue for action. I threw myself on the 
outraged man, and, twining my arms around him, 
braced myself to restrain him. Had I not been 
there, I reasoned, the stranger’s life would have 
been in direst jeopardy. But, strangely, my mus¬ 
cles were not taxed to the utmost. True, a tremor 
ran through the body held by me, but there was no 
tugging to become free, to rush at the other’s throat 
and tear it from ear to ear. Instead, I felt a relax¬ 
ing of balance, then I felt a dead-weight hanging 
to me. I released the bloodthirsty revenger. He 
fell back into his chair. His gaze just met the 
coins, still jingling in the stranger’s palm. Yet 
there is much trickery in browsing, and, as a matter 
of safety, I kept my hands on his arms for a case 
of emergency. 

The ex-watchman was the first to speak. 

I ought to kill you,” he hissed to him who had 
betrayed his hospitality. 

And then I let my hands fall from his arms, for 
a safeguard was necessary no longer. 

^‘What, kill me for a woman?” the newcomer 


THE LEVEL OF THE SODDEN 75 

laughed right merrily. ‘‘ Don’t talk like a fool. 
Drink up and have another one.” 

‘‘ I ought to kill you—I ought to kill you—I 

ought-murmured the ex-husband, and passed 

his glass to the waiting Nick to have it refilled at 
the expense of the ex-boarder. 



V 


THE SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF THE SLUMS 


T he needs of the slums, and of those who 
live in them, are so many that only the 
most crying can hope to find immediate 
and substantial relief. The need of food, clothes, 
and money is always present in the slums, and al¬ 
ways so extremely visible that the attention of 
philanthropists is easily attracted by it. And so 
the many millions which are yearly given to the re¬ 
lief of the needy go chiefly for the mitigation—not 
the abolition—of the most pressing cases. 

Even superficial investigation will make one dis¬ 
satisfied with the equivalent result for the sums 
expended; but it would be unjust to ascribe this to 
sinister causes. Much money is subscribed uncon¬ 
ditionally, without requiring an accounting, and, 
not considering the exceptional cases of dishonesty 
on the part of unimportant newly recruited workers, 
every dollar contributed is honestly expended. 
However, the pity is that honesty does not always 
spell competence, ability, and intelligence, and, 
through the absence of these essential traits, much 
of the money intrusted to sincere and enthusiastic 
76 


SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF SLUMS 77 

workers is frittered away and wasted without bring- 
ing any return. 

About four years ago $15,000 was subscribed to 
establish a reading-room and restaurant in the very 
heart of the slum district in New York. The lease 
of the place had been presented by the owner of the 
building and did not figure in the expenditures. 
The undertaking was the inspiration of a splendid 
old Christian, whose staunch and simple faith shone 
forth in every word uttered by him on evangelistic 
platforms, where he was—and still is—a most con¬ 
vincing and persuasive speaker. 

The father of the idea, he was put in charge of 
the work, and everything seemed promising. Sud¬ 
denly the work stopped and a cry for assistance was 
raised. At the ensuing meeting it was found that 
over $3000—and less than that amount was re¬ 
quired to complete the original idea—^had been ex¬ 
pended wastefully and without vouchers. With 
tears in his honest eyes, the old enthusiast pleaded 
for himself and against the insinuation of dishon¬ 
esty, which did not threaten him at all. But it was 
found that all plumbers, carpenters, and other 
tradesmen are not thorough Christians, and, also, 
it was demonstrated that strong faith does not al¬ 
ways bring great physical strength—I myself had 
seen three able-bodied men, recent converts from 
an interested mission, carry, with a close resem¬ 
blance to hard work, a board which would have 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


78 

been an easy burden for one frail man. Of course, 
the deficit was made up, and my good old friend 
superintended the job to the end. 

Perhaps the following will further illustrate why 
we have such workers and such results: 

A woman, true, strong, and intelligent, had long 
been in charge of the mission station nearest to 
my field of individual activity. Her great heart 
had pulsed with the misery about her and her wise 
head had done wonders in alleviating it. She had 
worked without ceasing, and the logical reward, 
for such toil—long illness—did not pass her by. 
As her successor, a sweet young woman, the dis¬ 
tant relative of a clergyman, came to us from the 
meadows of her country home. From the meadows 
to the slums is quite a jump, which, her sponsors 
claimed, would be minimised by her abundant faith. 

Having no other fad or hobby, I spend my leisure 
hours with those who were once my neighbours and 
are still my dear friends and brothers. So I was 
honoured by a request from the newcomer to co¬ 
operate with her. To cooperate with anyone who 
wants to feed, clothe, house, or enlighten my very 
own people comes within my purpose. Unfortu¬ 
nately, cooperation in this instance was out of the 
question. We differed in opinion and method. As 
I know and see it, theories formulated in the quiet 
of the homestead, puritanical doctrines and didac¬ 
tic dogmas suited to New England temperaments, 


SENTIMENTAL SIDE. OF SLUMS 79 

cannot be forced upon the complex population of 
the slums with a moment’s effort. And soon the 
new missionary could walk a whole block without 
having one of the many children in the street come 
running up to her with smiling greeting. And that 
is not as it should be. 

There were other reasons, and ere long a change 
was requested. I had little enough to do with the 
case, yet one in authority came to me to probe my 
‘‘ unfriendliness.” As it happens that I care more 
for the fate of the hungry soul of one slum child, 
beating seemingly in vain against the incarcerating 
walls of ignorance, indifference, and heartlessness, 
than for the convenience of all sweet women whose 
frenzied ardour makes their life purposes the very 
essence of selfishness, I had no difficulty in stating 
my view of the case. There was ample corrobora¬ 
tion, and the indictment could not be evaded. 

“ But,” said he in authority, summing up, you 
can’t deny she means well.” 

Not a word did I have to say against that, for I 
knew it to be true. But it still remains unproven 
that the attributes of meaning well,” or of being 
a Christian, will make up for inefficiency and will 
make good teachers, workers, or missionaries. 
And, according to my humble logic, where most ur¬ 
gent help is needed, the helpers cannot be too highly 
gifted, trained, or inspired. 

Comparison between the methods of settlements 


8o 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


and rescue missions will show that, though the for¬ 
mer are constantly progressing and untiringly in¬ 
troducing new features in their different depart¬ 
ments, the latter are conducted in almost the same 
way as when they were first started. Settlements 
make no pretence of catering to the sentimental side 
of the slums. They are eminently practical, and I 
know young men and women—^bright, decent, and 
well-behaved—who went to the settlement kinder¬ 
garten as tots, and who owe their intelligent re¬ 
spectability to their still maintained connection with 
their alma mater. No improved substitute could 
be found for these settlements, for the very good 
reason that they are constantly improving them¬ 
selves. But, I must repeat, while a sort of sterilised 
kindness is vouchsafed to every child and youth 
under the jurisdiction of the settlement faculty, the 
strong sentimental tendency of the slum character 
is severely left alone, and, perhaps, intentionally left 
alone. And—if you will remember that I do not 
speak from your side of the border—it seems a pity 
to me that always the needs and not always the 
wants and natural inclinations of the lesser people, 
among which their leaning toward the sentimental 
is almost the strongest, are considered. 

Let me quote to you the exact words of an old 
cynic who is known to every worker in the New 
York slums and who has frequently been a recipient 
of their charity. 


SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF SLUMS 8i 

“ ril tell you the whole thing in a nutshell/’ he 
replied, when I asked him why his lot, in spite of 
the many efforts to “ reform ” him, was not more 
satisfactory. “ These people that come down here 
to help us get so many cases like mine that they 
haven’t got time for anything else but to judge by 
the facts. There hasn’t been a day in the last fif¬ 
teen years when a * five-spot ’ wouldn’t have been 
a good-sized fortune to me. All this the ‘ good ’ 
people know, and, naturally, they think where I 
need the most and immediate help is in my stomach. 
Now, whilst I’m never above accepting a good, 
square meal that I don’t have to pay for, there 
are times when I wish they would think me capa¬ 
ble of doing something else besides eating. But 
the trouble is that they’ve got to judge by facts, 
and what a man’s past history is, or what his ‘ lik¬ 
ings ’ might be, can’t be considered when there’s the 
fact right before you that he’s in need. And as they 
won’t feed us all the time we always drop back into 
need, while if they would try to rouse us sometimes 
with the right kind of stuff we might—although I 
ain’t saying we would—get, maybe, different and 
better thoughts than we now have.” 

This statement, which I would not want to have 
considered entirely justified, indicates that quite a 
number of the seedy ones crave other things as 
much as material help. I believe I am not abso¬ 
lutely isolated in my opinion that the right sort of 


82 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


amusement is an important factor in any movement 
aiming at mental and moral improvement. 

The people of the slums are direct in deed and 
word, likes and dislikes, and expect direct appeal in 
their entertainment. Problem plays and psycho¬ 
logical studies in dramatic form do not “ go ’’ with 
audiences from the tenements. Their dramas must 
be strong and decisive in speech and action. The 
equivocation of epigrammatic dialogue would be 
classed as “ hot-air talk.’’ Rigidly defined canons 
must be observed by him who would be their play¬ 
wright. The ‘‘ speeches ” of the leading actors 
must be short, full of accentuated sentiment, and 
accompanied by either most forceful gesture or suit¬ 
able action. The hero who would attempt to de¬ 
liver a ‘‘ speech ”—no matter how well done rhe¬ 
torically—^in quiet pose and without his hands fight¬ 
ing the air would receive some exceedingly pointed 
prompting from gallery and orchestra on how his 
part should be played according to all time-hon¬ 
oured traditions. Great scenic effects are not ex¬ 
pected by the first-nighters of this sort of drama. 
At the Third Avenue Family Theatre scenic effects 
are more suggested than depicted, and yet the audi¬ 
ence at this really typical home of the melo¬ 
drama” will never criticise the stage-setting, al¬ 
though only too ready to comment on the action 
and language of the scene. 

I have neither the desire nor the qualification to 


SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF SLUMS 83 

fix the melodrama’s place in dramatic art, but I 
know that the young and old of the tenements take 
it as their favourite form of amusement. The most 
rip-roaring farces or comedies, even though pre¬ 
sented by an all-star cast of comedians/’ have not 
the drawing power of the most mediocre and trashy 
melodramas. 

Mental activity in the slums is not developed 
very much beyond fixing itself on the happenings 
of the immediate time and place. The conversation 
of social intercourse among the women is confined 
to the scandal of the neighbourhood; among the 
men, to district politics or the latest crime. Their 
sentimentality, saved from becoming callous by the 
lack of opportunity of application, is always ready 
to explode, but the appeal must come from without, 
because it cannot come from within. A mood, an 
atmosphere, has to be created, and in this the melo¬ 
drama is the most potent creator. However, among 
the older people and those who are surfeited with 
an indulgence in melodramatic pleasures, the power 
of staged villainy and virtue is superseded by that 
poor substitute for folk-song,” the popular song. 

Without harmony—save the mark!—no cere¬ 
monial occasion is possible in the social life of the 
slums. Race or religion has little to do with this 
custom. The general supposition that only the Irish 
of the Catholic denomination are given to much 
singing at their festal events is not true. Irish, Ger- 


84 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


man, Italian, and even Hebrew christenings are cele¬ 
brated with much joyful singing, and the funerals 
of the same races are also conducted to the airs of 
more sombre music. 

I have often wondered why, in the work of re¬ 
claiming the human driftwood, this sentimentality 
has not been more strongly appealed to. 

I am of the opinion that one who can voluntarily 
exchange a life of usefulness and respectability for 
an existence as crook or outcast is not of sound 
mind. Most people of weak mind are exceedingly 
sentimental. These men apd women, who turn 
night into day for their own purposes, make the back 
rooms of dives—usually the legislative annexes of 
some statesman-patriot—their favourite haunts. In 
most of these rooms a piano is manipulated by some 
fallen troubadour. Everyone of the creatures is 
ready to tell the story of the past, and everyone 
will lie about it; but there are moments when 
through their layer of accumulated moral and physi¬ 
cal filth a peep at their selves is possible. 

Even piano players have ‘‘ feelings,’’ and fre¬ 
quently the master of the keys, in return for a little 
refreshment, will ‘‘oblige on request.” Yes, I have 
sat there and have seen the masks of hardness and 
sinfulness falling, while behind the curtain of tears 
I saw but a weak, foolish human being. 

The other night the song played “ on request ” 
was one in which a mother is praying in her coun- 


SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF SLUMS 85 

try home for the straying one. While that thought 
was the leitmotif of the lyric, the verse ran to birds, 
flowers, brooks, and hillsides. Especially in the 
chorus the hillside was used for rhyming with 
“ bride,” light,” and pride,” and the one who 
had made the request seemed to be infatuated with 
the hillside refrain and hummed it for hours. Alas, 
contrary to expectations, the poor creature’s knowl¬ 
edge of hillside, birds, and flowers was restricted to 
sand dunes at Coney Island, sparrows in Mulberry 
Bend Park, and the “ fresh-cut ” pinks of the ped¬ 
dlers on the Bowery. But the commonplace plati¬ 
tudes of the song seemed to her the acme of all that 
was sweet, pure, and wholesome. 

These songs about home and mother never fail 
to bring the tears to the eyes of some whom you 
would scarcely think capable of the gift of weep¬ 
ing. During these periods of accentuated emotion 
their minds and hearts are plastic to the slightest 
suggestion for good. And this channel to get at 
the hearts of the lost and fallen should be more used 
than it is. That the workers of rescue missions are 
aware of this responsive chord to certain appeal 
is shown by the continued usage of that old 
stand-by, “Where is My Wandering Boy To¬ 
night?” 

A penny represents a great deal to a child of 
the slums. For it “ sticky apples,” “ all-day” candy, 
“ lossengers,” and other sweet “ dainties ” may be 


86 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


purchased. And pennies are dreadfully scarce in 
the slums. Not long ago, on my way to my down¬ 
town headquarters, I was squeezing myself through 
the hordes of children on the sidewalk, when I be¬ 
held an “ extraordinary bargain ” in the window of 
a shop which did threefold duty as stationery, to¬ 
bacco, and candy store. A pile of multi-coloured 
cards had been spoiled by fire and water and were 

almost given away.” A few minutes later I had 
twenty-five of those cards and twenty-five newly 
coined pennies. I have a number of acquaintances 
among “ the kiddies,” and ere long the usual crowd 
got around me. Without comment I gave each one 
of my friends his or her choice: brand-new penny 
or damaged holiday card. After offering my 
tempting wares to twenty-five children I found that 
I had twenty-three pennies and only two cards 
left. 

Yes, I know, the ape will always reach for the 
brightest object, and the cannibal is jollied into a 
preparatory state of civilisation by gay beads and 
buttons. But let me ask you in what state do we 
find the children of the slums ? 

A legacy of ugliness seemed to have been un¬ 
burdened on one little girl who stood in the circle 
around me that day. Sins of fathers and mothers 
could easily be traced in the repulsive little phiz. 
Yet when she turned from the pennies to the dam¬ 
aged works of art in my other hand and chose a pink 


SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF SLUMS 87 

moonrise, trimmed with blue snow, she looked very 
much like a mere child —a child whom anybody 
could have loved. 

Only a few days ago a man who always remem¬ 
bers his friends when he is in need sent for me. I 
found him in a regulation “ room ” of a lodging 
house—a box-stall, six feet by four. He had lived 
there for months, it was his “home,’’ and while 
he told me the usual tale I noticed his efforts to 
make the bare hole more homelike. Illustrations 
from various papers and periodicals were stuck to 
the wall, and here and there groups of really good 
smaller pictures enlivened the monotony. This, in 
itself, was encouraging, but particularly gratifying 
was the character of the pictures. Instead of pic¬ 
tures of prize-fights and other supposedly popular 
events, there were the Return of the Prodigal, the 
Sailor’s Farewell, and kindred subjects. 

“ Ah,” said the owner of this picture gallery, 
when asked by me to state his views on slum condi¬ 
tions, “ don’t you know what Jacob A. Riis says in 
one of his books ? He says: ‘ That what the poor 
need most they hate the most.’ But not many of 
them that come down here to make us good believe 
it. They have their own pet ideas, and we’re only 
good for experiments. While we’re alive some o’ 
them try to make us good by eating certain kinds 
of food, or taking some kind o’ pills, or believing 
in one kind of religion or another, or they try to 


88 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


work some cure on us that’s been thought out by 
some professor in college. And when we’re dead 
they throw us on a table and let a lot o’ students 
practise on us. Dead or alive, they think we’re 
things to practise on, and not men, each one of us 
with a different disposition, temper, or curse. They 
prescribe for us, and we’ve got to take it. Them 
pictures on the wall ? Say, ain’t I low enough with¬ 
out you thinking I ain’t got use for nothing only 
beef stew and mixed ale ? ” 

“ But there is the free picture gallery, the Mu¬ 
seum of Art, and-” 

“ Oh, cut that out; cut that out! ” he interrupted, 
with a mingling of contempt and disgust. “ What¬ 
ever they give free in the way of art and such is 
always so far from the slums that a fellow gets 
broke paying carfare to get to it. Then, sure, 
they’re free, but you just put on my rags and see 
how free-and-easy your admission to one o’ them 
museums would be! It’s like trying to get into one 
o’ them swell churches with ‘ All Are Welcome ’ on 
the outside of it. And, besides, what do I know 
about art? I could stand in front o’ one of them 
masterpieces for a whole day without tumbling 
whether it was a chromo or painted with real oil. 
That ain’t what I want. I just like to have 
something—something—ah, you know—something 
that’ll take the rough edge off of things. There’s 
times when I go to bed as soon as I can, because 



SENTIMENTAL SIDE OF SLUMS 89 

there’s no other place to go to when a fellow don’t 
want to go to the mixed-ale camp. 

‘‘ No, take it from me, being hungry ain’t the 
worst part of this game.” 

There is no doubt about it, most of these men 
deserve their fate. If they do, why do you not 
leave them to their fate? Have you a right to help 
their bodies at the expense of their hearts and 
minds? If there is anything in that highfalutin 
balderdash about a universal brotherhood and the 
one great bond uniting all races and classes, why 
don’t some of you, who have this sounding twaddle 
at the tips of your tongues, jump right into the 
midst of life as it is, and, instead of giving advice 
which you would never follow, step up to the near¬ 
est unfortunate representative of that great “ broth¬ 
erhood ”—Heaven knows they’re not hard to meet 
—and if you cannot give him or make him work, 
make him, at least, laugh or cry, and let him know 
that you recognise the fact that he has ‘‘ feelings ” 
as well as you. Many a man who cannot have his 
meals brought to him will take the trouble of going 
after them. 

But no; they of the slums are treated like beings 
of another world. Whatever is found to be of no 
use ‘‘ uptown ” is sent “ downtown ” to be of use 
there. Cast-off clothing, scraps of food, discarded 
articles of all sort are sent daily, and are gratefully 
received. Perhaps it is a social tenet that they who 


90 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


are not able to earn the necessaries of life must be 
satisfied with whatever is given to them in charity. 
But—and there are many in the slums who agree 
with me—if you want to lift the objects of charity 
from the state in which charity is their sole depend¬ 
ence, you ‘Cannot send only the human cast-offs of 
‘‘ uptown to perform this task for the human cast¬ 
offs of “ downtown.” The most brilliant, the most 
educated, the most Christian are none too good for 
this duty of humanity. 


VI 


THE FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 

I N the great city are many, who, leading thor¬ 
oughly respectable, quiet lives throughout 
the week, feel themselves inclined to be either 
Bohemian or, even, really “ devilish ’’ on Saturday, 
which is the pay-day of most of them. The great 
majority of these persons are of the tribe of 
furnished roomers.^’ 

Harry Sloan and Mary, his wife, belonged to 
this class. Married almost a year, they had not yet 
reached that state of affluence of being able to 
keep house,” and were still waiting in a third-rate 
furnished-room house for things to improve. In 
the meantime .they did not droop or worry, but 
went to their respective employments without grum¬ 
bling, knowing that Saturday would bring its usual 
good time.” 

They were of sociable .disposition and not at all 
selfish. Noticing that their neighbour, the occu¬ 
pant of the little ballroom on the top floor, 
dwelt in pronounced solitude, perhaps enforced by 
a justified despondency, Sloan and his wife de¬ 
termined to be her Samaritans. Social barriers in 
furnished-room houses are easily surmountable, 
91 


92 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


and Mary Sloan had no great difficulty in making 
her proposition to their quiet neighbour. 

On the following Saturday Harry Sloan, his 
wife, and Pauline Randall invaded the slums and 
dives, the haunts of the most miserable and de¬ 
graded, for their “ good time.” 

It so happened that, after feasting their eyes and 
ears—not forgetting their noses—on the various 
attractions of the slum district, the party adjourned 
to one of the most famous dives for their farewell 
cup. It seemed to be the unwritten law that all 
visitors to the locality had to stop at O’Dowd’s to 
be at least able to claim a familiarity with this no¬ 
torious “ joint.” And this “ joint ”—though never 
called that by its owner—was the business place 
and headquarters of the Hon. James O’Dowd, 
alderman. 

Almost needless to say, O’Dowd was the leader 
of the ward. Leaders of men must be strong in 
personal influence. That is where O’Dowd was 
voted “ immense.” The old ward had sometimes 
shown signs of rebellion. With Jim’s grasp on the 
reins it became a bulwark of the party. He kept 
that great mass of free, thinking Americans staunch 
to their allegiance. Before election, if at no other 
time, the voters of the district knew that something 
was coming to them—and how much. With the 
characteristic frankness of great men, Jim gave 
out the tip accurately, and, recognising their sov- 


FEELINGS OF THE CITY EATHER 93 

ereignty, declared “they didn’t have to take it if 
they didn’t want to.” 

Naturally, the ward expressed its appreciation 
of O’Dowd’s leadership by a liberal patronage of 
his “ joint.” Naturally, also, O’Dowd grew fat on 
this appreciation. Being of short stature, his in¬ 
creasing breadth and thickness made him look still 
shorter. Between rolls of fat above, rolls of fat 
below, his eyes looked like the peas in a shell- 
game, and were as elusive. Withal he was the per¬ 
sonification of true democracy, and proved it by 
the simple scene-setting of his back room, without 
which these legislative annexes do not seem to 
thrive. 

A shaky piano, decorated with the sticky im¬ 
prints of many glasses, showed that sweet music 
was discoursed here in the evening after the en¬ 
grossing labours of the day. That every available 
corner of the room was crowded with tables and 
chairs was sufficient demonstration that many were 
in the habit of coming here. Further to manifest 
the patriotic spirit dwelling within this saw-dusted 
hall, two pictures—both intensely American, a scene 
at a poker-table, and Washington at Valley Forge 
—were hung on the grimy wall. 

Let no one believe that the patrons of this ren¬ 
dezvous of patriots were of the common kind. 
Even royalties were not above spending their 
leisure moments in these congenial surroundings. 


94 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Nightly, unless detained by incognito sojourn else¬ 
where, such monarchs as “ Erie ” Mike, the king 
of confidence men; Barney Dwyer, king of “ saw¬ 
dust ” men; ‘‘ Guffy ” Leary, the prince of ‘‘ porch 
climbers,’^ and others of the blood and kidney were 
there to receive the homage of their admirers. 

And into this place came Harry Sloan, his wife, 
and Pauline Randall on this Saturday night to 
close their “ good time ’’ fittingly. 

Proud of his intimacy with the “ joint ” and its 
habitues, Sloan developed himself into a veritable 
rogues' gallery of shady information for the benefit 
of Pauline Randall. 

‘‘And that's old Jim O'Dowd," Sloan remarked 
when that worthy, in democratic shirt-sleeves, came 
from the front barroom to join his friend Barney 
Dwyer, the aforenamed “ sawdust king," at a little 
table in one of the corners of the room. 

O’Dowd's rise to eminence being worthy of 
a lengthier story, Sloan ordered some additional 
refreshments as fitting accompaniment for his 
biographical sketch. 

If Pauline Randall heard the story of the patriot, 
she did not show a very deep interest in it, seem¬ 
ing to listen rather with polite indifference. She 
was spared the final denouement of the detailed ac¬ 
count by an annoying incident. 

A dispute arose between Sloan and the waiter 
who had brought the drinks. 


FEELINGS OF THE CITY EATHER 95 

Careful of the fair repute of his place, Jim 
O’Dowd, who had noticed the disturbance, excused 
himself to the saw-dust ” king and waddled to the 
table of Sloan and his party to restore order. In¬ 
tending to apply the usual formula—‘‘ You got to 
keep quiet or get out ”—to the offenders, his inten¬ 
tion was changed by the peculiar timbre of a Voice, 
which rose distinctly from the babble. 

‘‘ How d’you do ? ” was his salutation, which, 
in the stress of the moment^ was not noticed. 

“ What’s the matter ? ” he inquired next. 

Sloan began: “ Why, this waiter has-” 

O’Dowd was not even aware of Sloan’s exist¬ 
ence. His glance rested so pointedly on Pauline 
Randall that, to bridge the embarrassment, she felt 
herself compelled to give the required explanation. 
The waiter, in returning the change of a bill 
handed to him in payment of the drinks, had at¬ 
tempted to cheat Sloan by the old trick of “ palm¬ 
ing” several coins. 

Ears wide open, O’Dowd had not heard one word 
of the explanation. But he had listened, greed¬ 
ily listened, to the sound of that voice. He 
stood staring at Pauline Randall until the griev¬ 
ance had to be retold. Then he turned to the 
waiter. 

‘‘ Make good! ” 

‘^What?” 

If the sky had fallen on him, the waiter could 



96 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


not have been more dumbfounded. It was under¬ 
stood that a beer-slinger ’’ not proficient in the 
legerdemain of vanishing coins was not considered 
a useful employee in the dives of statesmen. And 
here- 

The ‘‘ beer-slinger ’’ gathered his wits and un¬ 
derstood : it was a new bluff of the boss. 

“ Say, Jim, this guy didn’t give me nothing of 
the kind. I ain’t going to make good nothing, 
and-” 

The fist of the city father landed on the jaw of 
his waiter and dropped him in a heap on the floor. 
The Voice had had its first offering. 

Get up on your feet and fetch us some drinks,” 
ordered O’Dowd, pulling a chair to the table. 
“ What’ll you people have ? ” 

That O’Dowd was a liberal spender was a long- 
established fact. In this instance it was not his 
instinct of hospitality or liberality which prompted 
him to “ treat.” He wanted to have an opportunity 
of listening to the Voice. 

And there was reason in this infatuation. 

He felt himself handicapped in his political ad¬ 
vancement by his lack of polite refinement. Cor¬ 
roboration of this opinion had come to him by 
someone way up ” in the councils of the party. 
Jim was all a knave, and nothing of a fool, and 
a calculating hunger for gentility was carefully 
nursed by him. Every opportunity, promising to 




FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 97 

bring- culture a little nearer, was more than wel¬ 
comed by him. 

This, surely, was an excellent chance to spend 
some minutes within the sound of a voice, which, 
besides its resonance, had the modulation typical 
of refinement. That the voice which had attracted 
him had an undertone of peculiarly hard and harsh 
pitch, was beyond the ear of O’Dowd. He was a 
connoisseur in whisky, vice, and corruption, but 
not in the comparative quality of voices, and this 
Voice was fairly singing to him. Also—let us 
have the truth—that love which we so wantonly 
call “ love at first sight ” had suddenly come into 
the heart of the Hon. James O’Dowd, alderman. 

So, there he sat, drinking in the tone of the 
Voice and enjoying the novel experience of having 
someone of refinement talk to him, not patron- 
isingly, but on the basis of social equality. He was 
not shareless in the conversation, but, with cus¬ 
tomary directness, pried into her personal affairs. 
And she, while Sloan and his wife sat wonderingly, 
told to this thing all about herself. 

She spoke hurriedly, hastily, yet without reserve. 
It perhaps contradicted her refinement and tact, 
but, it is proverbial, troubles and trials will make 
one exceedingly loquacious. Within a few min¬ 
utes after their first meeting Jim O’Dowd knew 
that Pauline Randall had come to the city from 
the country school, which she had superintended, 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


98 

with very little of negotiable property, but with 
many hopes and ambitions. The funds were 
quickly expended, and the hopes and ambitions 
did not last much longer. Now she had come to 
the end of her rope, did not know what was to 
become of her, and—she ended—“ did not care.” 

An instinctive feeling told Jim O’Dowd that 
here was the chance of his life—if he could only 
grasp it. 

Here was a real lady, who cared not what hap¬ 
pened to her. To become the wife of the Hon. 
James O’Dowd was surely not the worst she could 
do. Now she was a nobody, even if a lady; then 
she would be somebody, would be right in line, 
and, “ may be, there weren’t many willing to 
change their name to his.” 

And, above all- 

There’s never been a woman that stirred my 
feelings as much as Pauline, the first time I seen 
her/’ so it was later described. 

Sloan and his wife had never been out so late 
before and felt a trifle disgruntled at their neglect, 
but Jim paid slight attention to them, confining 
himself to interpreting his feelings as well as he 
could under the circumstances. And even so, his 
purpose was understood by Pauline Randall. 

That night, in her ballroom, Pauline Randall 
reviewed the occurrence and its probable conse¬ 
quences. Escaping from the narrow and humble 



FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 99 

precincts of her home, she had come to the city 
hoping to reach the affluence which has come to 
so many invaders from rural communities. Judg* 
ing her abilities by the standards of the village, 
where they had shone brilliantly, she found them 
to be but average when put to the severe tests of 
the metropolis. Although her small capital was 
hoarded with miserly care, it could not last forever, 
and Pauline could definitely foretell the day on 
which she would be abso-lutely penniless and help¬ 
less. The only saving grace about her isolated 
position was that it freed her from any controlling 
responsibility to others. She was responsible to 
herself alone. 

She was not old. The twenty-three years of 
her life had not brought her many pleasures. And 
what is the propelling motive which brings the 
many to the great city? Is it only their desire 
to offer their gifts and talents unselfishly to the 
commonwealth for its greater glory? Does there 
not also lurk the partly suppressed, and yet po¬ 
tent, hunger for luxuries, shining more radiantly 
when read about where homeliness and simplicity 
abound ? 

Present circumstances forced Pauline Randall to 
pay the closest attention to the most material side 
of life, and when one has to train the appetite 
according to one’s purse, the choice of continued 
plenty is hard to reject. 


tore. 


100 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Two days later Pauline Randall and the Hon. 
James O’Dowd went to the theatre. It was but 
the beginning of a round of gaieties. 

To keep himself in the background had never 
been one of O’Dowd’s failings. Now he had so 
much more reason for display and make a bid for 
the lim-elight. Money was flung right and left. 
Only the most conspicuous box would do at the 
theatre. 

“ Don’t care how I spend my money! There’s 
lots more where this came from,” said O’Dowd in 
all truthfulness. 

At first Pauline liked the prominence given to 
them by the box seats. Before long she began to 
hate it. To see this peculiar pair in their box 
attracted the eyes of even the most indifferent in 
the audiences. The glances of the men did not 
prove so very annoying—Pauline had a fair esti¬ 
mate of her attractiveness^—^but the eyes of the 
women were troublesome, the dollar sign was at 
the end of their questions. 

She made no objection to an early wedding. 
Nasty medicine is most easily taken quickly. Two 
months after her visit to Jim’s dive Pauline Ran¬ 
dall became his wife. 

Preceding the wedding-day, O’Dowd took it 
upon himself to provide a home. A flat, contain¬ 
ing all modern improvements and a flamboyant 
entrance of much iron-work, marble, and plush was 


FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER loi 


chosen for the connubial nest. An East Side furni¬ 
ture house received carte blanche, and an East Side 
furniture house with carte blanche can produce some 
striking effects. Some of his more favoured friends 
were permitted to view the result, and they admitted 
with conviction that it beat anything they had ever 
seen. The multitude of colours and their combina¬ 
tions were declared particularly ‘‘ paralysing.” 

“ I guess she won’t have no kick coming on that? 
Looks rich, don’t it? ” commented O’Dowd without 
contradiction. 

The celebration of the wedding was in keeping 
with the rest. The dance, hall which had been 
rented for the occasion was crowded to suffocation. 
It was almost an event of national importance be¬ 
cause of the many office-holders and statesmen 
present. There was dancing, eating, and drinking, 
and so much of the last that several patriots began 
to tell tales out of school. However, this was 
quickly stopped by some cooler head, and the night 
closed fitly with a grand chorus of, 

“ My country, ’tis of thee.” 

The wedding and the feast were prominently 
chronicled in the daily press, and the matrimonial 
venture of the O’Dowds seemed to have been 
launched under the most favourable auspices. Both 
had reached an end desired: he had a home, a hand¬ 
some wife, and a mentor in etiquette and culture; 


102 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


she was assured of as many meals a day as she 
wanted, had bodily comfort, and—a loving hus¬ 
band. 

O’Dowd loved his wife intensely. But O’Dowd 
was a brute and loved according to his species. His 
love was heavily streaked with the sense of posses¬ 
sion, of proprietorship. Instead of sentiment, he 
was overflowing with emotion. Soon, very soon, 
Pauline found her citadel of satisfaction impaired 
by the constant bombardment of his noisy affection. 

A few months after the wedding she found her¬ 
self fighting fiercely against many fits of brooding, 
which would and would return. 

I have no right to be dissatisfied,” she told her¬ 
self time and time again. “ He has done everything 
possible for me.” 

It was true. According to his lights he had done 
everything possible. All the shrill gayness around 
her, the gaudy rugs and portieres, the gilt furni¬ 
ture, proclaimed it. His devotion was shown by 
the many hours he spent at home, neglecting the 
business at the dive, by the many presents he show¬ 
ered on her, and by his constant willingness to get 
more. 

“ There’s nothing you can’t have, Pauline,” was 
his continual assurance. “ I’ve got a healthy bun¬ 
dle o’ money; but if it costs more than I got, I’ll 
get it for you, anyway, even if I got to steal it.” 

The moods of brooding were irrepressible. At 


FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 103 

times she would sit murmuring, Pauline O’Dowd, 
Pauline O’Dowd,” and shiver at the faulty eu¬ 
phony. His kisses became unbearable. If not 
successful in evading his embraces, she would 
run to the door he had slammed behind him and 
beat it with her fists, until weeping made her 
cease. 

Coarse and thick-skinned as Jim was, he noticed 
the growing change in her, and, ascribing it to head¬ 
aches or neuralgia, thought an increased spending 
of money the best remedy. But when no improve¬ 
ment followed, he took a more serious view of the 
matter and called in a physician. 

Pauline gave little heed to her husband’s solici¬ 
tude. She sat and moped, and would not consent 
to see the eminent physicians “ hired ” by O’Dowd. 

“ There isn’t anything the matter with me,” she 
resented peevishly. I just want to be alone and 
rest.” 

Her indifference, apathy, carelessness—what mat¬ 
ters the definition—grew daily. The biograph of 
her mind’s eye, continually spinning before her 
vision, unrolled the film of her future and made her 
loathe herself for having justified it. How could 
she think of living a future, peopled with charac¬ 
ters of her husband’s type I At such cost, affluence, 
security from want, was nauseating. 

There were paths away from it ; but they all led 
to destruction, moral or physical. Eventually 


104 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Pauline reduced her meditations to a weighing of 
the different ways. 

Jim O’Dowd grew hopeful as, on a certain morn¬ 
ing, Pauline seemed to have shaken off her melan¬ 
choly lethargy and greeted him pleasantly at 
breakfast. 

Good girl,” he cried heartily, that’s the way 
to do it. Never give in. Try and be yourself 
again.” 

So I have determined,” she answered, and Jim, 
only grasping the words, was fully content. 

‘‘You wait till I get home, and, maybe, I won’t 
bring you something in the diamond Ikie to cele¬ 
brate this day when you got feeling like yourself 
again,” promised O’Dowd, intending to spend a 
small fortune on something “ dazzling.” 

The husband had scarcely departed when the 
servants, liberally provided with “ spending money,” 
were permitted to go out for a holiday. Alone, 
she set the stage for the last act. 

Moving a greenish satin couch on gilded legs 
into the centre of the most garish room, she care¬ 
fully closed all doors and windows. Every keyhole, 
every aperture, no matter how small, received her 
attention. Her last task was concerned with the 
chandelier, a monstrous article with many jets. 
Then everything was ready. 

It is not advisable to meddle with the households 
of city fathers. The attendants of the apartment 


FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 105 

house did not force an entrance into the O’Dowd 
flat until the all-pervading smell of gas could no 
longer be denied. When at last the doors had been 
broken down, they found that their delicacy about 
entering had made them too late to be of assistance. 
Pauline had chosen, and entered upon, her way. 

O’DowcL at the dive, just returned from the jew¬ 
elry store, was busily engaged in getting into a 
festive mood in honour of his wife’s recovery. The 
messenger despatched from the apartment house 
found it no easy task to state his errand. 

‘‘You lie, you dirty hound, you lie!” cried 
O’Dowd, when at last he understood the purport of 
the message, and before he threw himself into the 
carriage which was to convey him to the scene. 

His entrance into the chamber of death was the 
reverse of impressive. Staggering and bleary-eyed 
he blinked at those in the room—doctors, police¬ 
men, and attendants. 

“ What’d she die for?” he asked absurdly, turn¬ 
ing from one to another. 

Then he saw the couch in the centre of the room, 
and with gathering sobriety he flung himself on his 
knees beside her. For a long time he felt her hair, 
patted her cheeks, and held her hands, until the 
sting of personal injury made itself felt. 

“ So help me God, I loved that woman,” he told 
the bystanders. “ I done everything for her, every¬ 
thing. She wanted for nothing. Every day I gave 


io6 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

her things without her asking for them. Look 
h'ound and see the home she had. Piano, and fancy 
things all over the place—and then she goes and 
kills herself. WhaPd she do it for? What’d she 
do it for? ’’ 

The ambulance surgeon, being there in an official 
capacity, endeavoured to reason with the babbling 
fool. 

“ Yes, it is very sad, Mr. O’Dowd, but-” 

O’Dowd rose like a maniac. 

“ What are you people doing in here ? Who 
gave you the right to come in here and see her? 
Hey, John,” this to one of the policemen, why 
don’t you drive them out? This is my place, d’you 
hear? Everything here belongs to me, and she, 
too, she’s mine, and-” 

He threw himself again beside the couch. 

The room was quickly cleared, until only the 
proper officials remained. There had to be an in¬ 
vestigation, but this proceeding is a mere formality 
when the wives of city fathers furnish the occasion. 

O’Dowd scarcely left his place beside the couch. 
He was beyond all reasoning until he was consulted 
about the arrangements for the funeral. That 
roused him. 

“ She’ll have the finest funeral that ever came 
out of the ward. What do I care for money now ? 
What good is it to me now ? I might as well spend 
it on her funeral than on anything else! ” 




FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 107 

The undertaker, as the furniture dealer before 
him, received carte blanche and made the most of 
his opportunity. Perhaps you will pardon this per¬ 
sonal note, but I knew the woman. And one who 
had known her in life without pitying her, deeming 
her but justly served, would have surely pitied her 
for her mourners. 

As in the Organisation, as in the parades, as on 
Election Day, so numbers counted in the funeral 
cortege. Every loafer, tramp, pickpocket, or 
‘‘grafter” in the district who wanted a free ride 
and refreshments was welcome to a seat in the 
coaches. And in spite of his sorrow^—which was 
as sincere as the man was capable of—O’Dowd, who 
rode alone behind the truckload of flowers and 
wreaths, could not suppress a feeling of deep grati¬ 
fication on beholding the long string of carriages 
following in the wake of the silver-plastered casket. 
It was, indeed, as one of the mourners said, “ a 
grand send-off, and almost worth dying for.” 

O’Dowd’s devotion to his wife had not passed 
unnoticed. After the funeral, the wiseacres prophe¬ 
sied, with some show of reason, that Jim would 
“ cut loose and go it hard for a good while.” He 
disappointed the prophets. Something was wrong 
with O’Dowd that never came right again. 

His visits to the dive were less frequent. Most 
of his time was spent in the flat, which had been 
kept intact. There, alone—the servants had been 


io8 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

discharged—he gave his “ feelings full sway and 
indulged in many monologues as to the freakish¬ 
ness of life. 

“ What’s the use of all this stuff now ? There’s 
that clock! I paid sixty dollars for it. I remember 
it as if it was yesterday. What good is it now? 
The first thing I know somebody else’ll be using 
it—but, no, they won’t, I’d sooner break it! ” 

And the poor timepiece, torn from the mantel, 
crashed to the floor, where gilt chairs and brass 
lamps had gone before it. 

These “ feelings ” made visible changes in 
O’Dowd. His personal appearance was first neg¬ 
lected, then it became positively slovenly, and the 
so hardly acquired touches of refinement vanished 
without trace. 

More serious than the deterioration of his ap¬ 
pearance was the neglect of his duties as leader. 
When, after a reasonable time, his grief showed no 
signs of abating, the Powers of the Party were 
obliged to take notice or, perhaps, to discipline. 
A delegation of three was duly appointed by the 
executive committee to call on the city father. 
Their reception was more emphatic than cordial. 
Without permitting them to enter, O’Dowd con¬ 
signed them to a region, where, according to ortho¬ 
dox views, all good and practical politicians go— 
after their demise. 

The report of the delegation resulted in the is- 


FEELINGS OF THE CITY FATHER 109 

stmnce of an ukase commanding’ Jim O’Dowd to 
appear at once before the committee. But ukases 
have to be delivered; and the deliverer of the ukase 
in question, succeeding in having the door of the 
flat opened to him, intruded at a moment when 
Jim’s “ feelings ” were exceptionally hard on the 
ornaments in the apartment, and was greeted by a 
plaster Cupid, which went to pieces on his skull. 

Before the next campaign began O’Dowd’s lead¬ 
ership had been transferred to a more rational 
statesman, and Jim found himself, without minding 
it, a political ‘‘ has-been.” 

He still is master of the dive. His manager does 
not care to have him there too often. It is not good 
for trade. Besides his emaciated appearance, which 
makes him repulsive, he insists on telling his story 
and describing his feelings ” to everyone willing 
to listen. And his—as barkeepers will testify—is 
not a narrative to induce the buying of drinks. So 
Jim O’Dowd’s circle of willing listeners has shrunk 
to petty thieves and confirmed drunkards, who have 
to ‘‘ hang out ” at his place because no other place 
is open to them, and who are always suffering from 
a shortness of ready cash, which their bard of the 
woeful tale is always ready to relieve—provided 
they will sympathise with his “ feelings.” 

And so they sing her requiem. 


VII 


WHEN THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 

I N our last, eternal sleep our souls are home 
with the Father. As we are sure of that we 
will not deny that during our temporary sleep, 
the sleep that comes nightly, at the end of our toil, 
our souls must be very close to Him. It is a glori¬ 
ous thought to know that each night after the even¬ 
ing prayer our souls and bodies are free from ma¬ 
terial care, safe in His hands. How cosey, how 
‘‘ comfy ” it is to snuggle one’s cheek deeper into 
the downy pillow; how relieving to stretch and re¬ 
lax one’s limbs under the warm blankets; how easy 
we breathe the sigh of utter content and bless the 
night of rest; how rarely our slumbers are dis¬ 
turbed, unless there is sudden illness or calamity 
or depressing thought. And, speaking of depress¬ 
ing thoughts, how many of us have ever lost a 
minute’s sleep by the depressing thought of the 
many sleepless, bedless creatures who walk endless 
miles while you and I, brethren, snore away in the 
sleep of the—can I rightly say it?—the just. And 
there are many who spend their nights in tramping 
and who, though He watches over them, are far . 
away from Him. 


no 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES iii 


iWhile I have not seen half enough of our glori¬ 
ous country, I have been to several of our larger 
cities and have compared their conditions to those 
of the metropolis. I did not expect to find a mil¬ 
lennial state of conditions. Long ago I have real¬ 
ised that the poor are always with us. Go where 
you may, in our present state of social advance¬ 
ment, you will find the poor in city, village, hamlet, 
and even in the wilderness. So in Boston, Phila¬ 
delphia, Buffalo, and New Haven I expected to find 
the poor, and was not disappointed. But in these 
cities I missed one thing, which is perhaps the sad¬ 
dest, most sorrowful feature of the seedy life in the 
metropolis. I missed the dread nocturnal proces¬ 
sion of the harrowing spectres which trends its 
way along the streets and avenues of the Empire 
City night after night, year after year. Well on 
toward morning I walked the principal streets of 
the mentioned cities, and the pavements almost re¬ 
sented my intrusion, for in my solitary walk I was 
alone, the sound of my footfall echoing lonely in 
the resting city. 

How sweet sleep must be when one can be as¬ 
sured that the city’s lanes are not crowded with an 
army of miserables, a horde of restless shades, not 
one of them having a roof, a pallet to call his own. 
And because in my city there are many thousands 
who have neither roof nor coverlet the streets are 
thronged at night with troops of men, tramping 


II2 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


wearily from midnight till morning. Still, ours is 
not the city of the sleepless. Insomnia is not suffi¬ 
ciently fashionable to become a fad, and we, of 
beds, snore and sleep heartily. Why shouldn't we ? 
Are we not tired at the end of day from having 
worked so much and long—for ourselves? 

My town is full of good people who like to hear 
about the seamy side of life. Why? For the same 
reason that a warm room feels immensely good 
after coming from the cold air. They want to 
hear about it, listen to it with tears in their honest 
eyes—and then go home to appreciate what they 
have—no matter how little it might be—and, per¬ 
haps, thank God that they do not have to suffer 
as their less fortunate fellow-creatures. Never¬ 
theless we of the other, the seamy side, cannot af¬ 
ford to keep silent and must keep on talking and 
writing about the cancers, spreading daily from 
sheer neglect and indifference. Some day, perhaps, 
something might come from our talking and writ¬ 
ing, when our hearers and readers will grasp the 
fact with burning consciences that we are talking 
and writing the truth and that we are doing it, if 
ineffectively, because it has to be done, for the 
might of Self is growing and the power of Love 
seems dead. 

And so, hoping that some day these truths 
will be believed and understood before they are 
forgotten, I keep on talking and writing about 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 113 

them, getting a bit of encouragement and indorse¬ 
ment here and there. 

One night—it was a night when your thoughts 
involuntarily stray to wood fires and cosey grates 
—I was scheduled to speak at one of our churches. 
I had been left carte blanche in the choice of my 
topic. On my way to the church I arranged my 
ideas and determined to tell my audience of the 
fortitude of character of the finest ladies of the 
land; the mothers of the tenements. I marshalled 
all the sections of my address and felt assured that 
I would easily stir the wells of sympathy of my 
hearers. And then happened one of the little inci¬ 
dents of metropolitan life which made me forsake 
my first intentions. 

The cars were packed, but the streets were de¬ 
serted and nothing obstructed my view ahead. 
Looking up to the next corner I saw a cur of the 
mongrel breed in the familiar attitude of three legs 
on the ground and the fourth lifted as if appealing 
or afraid. That sight is familiar to me, but always 
sad. No man travels the road of destruction with¬ 
out having been propelled to it by some offence of 
his own or some human reason, but pity the dumb 
creatures, without wicked intent or sinful design, 
without their own doing, thrown into the cruel 
maelstrom of the public highway. If you knew 
dogs as I do you would grieve at all the true affec¬ 
tion and friendship which could be given by those 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


114 

little four-footed fellows, and which goes to waste 
because they have no one on whom to lavish their 
best emotions. But this is the recital of an incident 
and I must return to it. 

Arrived at the corner, I was scrutinised by my 
waiting friend. Apparently he approved of me. 
With a hoarse bark he ran down the side street, 
looking back to make sure that I was following 
him. Halting at a snow bank, he explained my 
duty to me. I dragged the thing from its snowy 
bed and found that I had been none too soon. 
About sixty years of age, decrepit, illy clad, badly 
nourished, the old man, homeless for years, would 
have slept into death in that snowbank had not his 
only friend, the mongrel cur, called me to the 
rescue. 

To do what was my obvious duty took some 
time, and I arrived at my church a little late. Also 
the recent incident had changed my train of 
thoughts, and instead of presenting my first chosen 
topic I told of the midnight life in the metropolis. 
I needed no notes or preparation. Often and often, 
as boy and man, had I seen that nightly promenade 
along the highway of the foolish and wicked. The 
picture was too well engraven on my mind to re¬ 
quire much rehearsing. 

After the story had been told comments were 
freely offered. Some said it was sad—that I knew 
and admitted; others praised me for speaking so 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 115 

bravely for my fellows^ but did not believe me— 
and the pastor was among: them. Withal he is a 
good man and my friend. 

“ Kildare/’ he said, ‘‘ you’re biassed in this. You 
feel for these fellows and naturally paint their lot 
in more sympathetic colours and, therefore, exag¬ 
gerate unconsciously from sheer pity.” 

To argue is a waste of time when proof is right 
near at hand. 

“ If you will come with me and see, my asser¬ 
tions will prove themselves,” I challenged him. 

The pastor smiled at my guilelessness. My chal¬ 
lenge was what he had wanted. I had walked into 
his trap and he readily came with me, prepared to 
give me an object lesson on the evils of exag¬ 
geration. 

There is a beginning to the Bowery as there is 
to all misery, and there we started. From end to 
end the Bowery harbours over fifty thousand men 
in its lodging houses every night. The privilege 
of rest—sleep cannot be guaranteed, for memories 
will refpse to be deadened even on the Bowery— 
can be had from five cents up to twenty-five cents. 
And because there are men who . cannot even earn, 
beg, steal, or borrow five cents, the nocturnal pro¬ 
cession parades every night. 

As not a block is without its quota of lodging 
houses we saw the first one as soon as we left our 
car. There and further on we saw men descend- 


ii6 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

ing the stairs of the lodging houses. It seemed a 
point against me. 

Said the pastor: “ Where is your phantom army ? 
All these men seem to be guests at these lodging 
houses.” 

Said I: “ These men are recruits for the army, 
hurrying to join the ranks.” 

In truth they were guests of the lodging 
houses, but not welcome guests, because not pay¬ 
ing, and merely tolerated. 

Throughout the day and until midnight the read¬ 
ing-rooms of the lodging houses are packed to suf¬ 
focation. Half of the men are not patrons of the 
house, but only come, sneak in, to find a place for a 
few hours’ rest after their nightly tramp. The 
reading-rooms close at about eleven o’clock. Then 
the aristocrat, the man who has paid for his bed, 
retires grandly to his couch, while the other, the 
outcast for the night, descends the stairs to take 
up his unwilling vigil. 

This I explained to the pastor, who believed in 
part, yet doubted much. 

“ Surely,” he remarked, “ the few men who are 
compelled to walk the streets because of their in¬ 
ability to pay for their lodging cannot number into 
the thousands claimed by you.” 

I merely asked his indulgence for a little more 
time. 

At Canal Street the pastor’s attention was at- 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 117 

tracted by several groups of men who hung about 
the Bowery Mission. This gave me a cue. 

“Let us call on my friend, Superintendent Hal- 
limond, of the Bowery Mission, who is just ready 
to serve his nightly promenade breakfast/’ I sug¬ 
gested. 

We entered the mission and went to the base¬ 
ment. Mountains of rolls, barrels of coffee were 
waiting to be devoured. 

“ How many do you feed here ? ” I asked for my 
pastor’s enlightenment. 

“ The baker is ordered to leave fifteen hundred 
rolls here every night.” 

“ How often do you serve this breakfast? ” 

“ Every midnight, from January until May.” 

The pastor looked grave, still fifteen hundred are 
not thousands. 

Then the doors were opened. They squirmed, 
fought, crept, pushed, sneaked, rolled their way into 
the basement. Before they had scarcely passed 
your vision the fifteen hundred were inside—and 
more hundreds outside were glamouring for ad¬ 
mittance. 

We stood aside and viewed the terrible throng. 
Among them were many familiar faces. 

“ How long have you known me ? ” I asked one 
in the line. 

“ Oh, about ten or twelve years,” was the un¬ 
certain reply. 


ii8 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

I asked others the same question and received 
similar answers, which I augmented with the in¬ 
formation that during all these years these friends 
of the breakfast line had looked, and been the same, 
as on this night when my pastor’s eyes were 
opened. 

‘‘ But how could that have been ? What kept 
them down so long and so tenaciously?” he ques¬ 
tioned me in bewilderment. 

But on that night I was with him to show my 
proofs and not to answer questions, of which he 
should have known the responsibility better than I. 
Besides, my case was only partly proven. 

Come,” said I, and we journeyed on. 

Four blocks further on, in shadow of the ele¬ 
vated railway pillars, shivering and stamping, an¬ 
other drear, long line of now familiar spectres 
stood. 

“ Scarcely a thousand,” I whispered to my pas¬ 
tor; still, a fair-sized mob.” 

A private charity this, the hundreds come here 
every night in every season to get their bread and 
coffee and other scraps left by less hungry ones, 
their breakfast at the waking of the midnight city. 

We did not linger long, as much was still before 
us, but when we left my friend the pastor looked 
a great deal graver. 

‘‘ Come,” again I said and led on but three blocks 
before another waiting crowd greeted us from the 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 119 

corner of a side street. Here a policeman was 
needed to keep the men in line and order. They 
had waited there for hours—and what for? The 
half of a loaf of bread—and then tell me that beg¬ 
ging isn’t the hardest kind of work. As the line 
began to move to pass the door of the mammoth 
bakery for the patiently earned portion of the staff 
of life, I turned again to my friend. 

‘‘ Come,” I said, still anxious to prove my case. 

“ No, no, I have seen enough.” 

‘‘ But there is more to see and all of the same 
sort,” I remonstrated, but the pastor weakened. 

‘‘ Oh, this is pitiful, dreadful! ” he cried. 

“ It is all that,” I admitted, ‘‘ and more—it is 
wicked.” 

And so it is, look at it from whatever stand¬ 
point you may. 

Most of the men are physically able. If willing 
to work, why can’t we provide it for them; if too 
lazy to work, why can’t we make them work? It 
does not seem right that the felon in prison should 
have the state give him paternal care, give him bed, 
food, clean linen, medical attendance, and all the 
other necessaries of life, while the fellow of the 
midnight army, who has not broken a law of the 
commonwealth, has nothing but the street for 
shelter and nothing but the crumbs of charity for 
food. 

Why is it that men of splendid attainments and 


120 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


education are thick in these ranks? And they are 
not all drunkards. 

It’s wickedness, shameful wickedness, that we, 
who love to crow so much and who never tire of 
posing to the rest of the world as the enlighteners 
of the age, the inventors of all inventions, the pio¬ 
neers in all progress, cannot devise a way to keep, 
in the richest city of the richest land, our fellow- 
beings from the nocturnal procession. And it’s 
wicked because we have the money for relief, and 
give it, but have not the time to spend our intelli¬ 
gence on such a “ trivial and profitless matter.” 

Time and again have I asked the question, 
“What will you do about it?” and always my 
answer has been a shrug of the shoulders and, 
“ What can we do about it? ” 

Nature is well balanced within itself and has a 
cure for every illness. There also is and must be 
a remedy for this cancer of the tramping spectres, 
foisting on our social growth, but we are too busy 
to look for it in our souls and minds. It is so easy 
and convenient to supply the sinews for the philan¬ 
thropic war when one is rated among the multi¬ 
millionaires, but we, who are far below the seven- 
figure mark, cannot make that the excuse for our 
indifference. Let us be less selfish and let us be 
oftener beside the one who needs our help and more 
the help of our intelligence than the help of our 
pocketbook. 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 12 1 


I do not advocate the promiscuous giving of alms. 
The mite given to the whining mendicant is a debt 
unpaid to the suffering widow. Neither do I deny 
that the work is hard, thankless, and slow of re¬ 
sults. The fallen man generally falls so low that 
he thinks himself beyond all human aid. We of 
average means cannot defray the cost of lifting the 
being fallen to the gutter and placing him solidly 
back on to the rock of former respectability. . If 
there were a mutual desire for rehabilitation, if the 
man whom we would help would work with us in 
redeeming him, the task would be more possible, 
more hopeful. But the percentage of those who 
would do this is small, incredibly small. Let the 
germ of lodging-house existence once get into the 
life of the man who has come to travel the highway 
of the foolish and wicked and he will be soundly 
afflicted with that dread disease—carelessness. 
It cannot be called hopelessness, because hope¬ 
lessness involves a certain amount of mental 
activity to realise its existence. It is a drifting, a 
sliding to nowhere. All things—the things which 
are part of our life, like eating and sleeping—come 
to these men in the way of surprises. Their suste¬ 
nance does not depend on their efforts, but merely 
on their “ luck.’’ Most of them have not even the 
energy to beg. Frequently I have gone to lodging 
houses with offers to put a number of the idling 
men to work at different employment, but instead 


122 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


of having my offers accepted readily, I fairly had to 
coax them to come with me. 

How then do they live? 

They do not live, but merely exist on the chances 
and the good-natured indulgence of the metropolis. 
There is much so-called charity in our city and one 
need not starve. Most times it is not even neces¬ 
sary to ask. All that is required to get a meal is 
to stand in line on the street until the charitable 
doors are opened—and that, too, helps to blunt the 
already dulled sensibilities. Also, there are many 
kind-hearted people in the city, whose pity is 
aroused by the forlorn appearance of these soldiers 
of the spectre army, and alms are frequently given 
without having been solicited. And that, too, comes 
under the heading of ‘‘ luck.’’ 

And again I say that it is wicked to have and to 
tolerate such a state of conditions. The proprietor 
of a manufacturing plant is very careful that no 
part of his machinery is permitted to fall into decay 
without having all its usefulness exhausted. But 
in the lodging houses of the Bowery, energy, men¬ 
tal and muscular, the mightiest part of mightiest 
machinery, is permitted to go to waste and rot. 
Yet, what of it? Who cares? We, the more for¬ 
tunate, are also inflicted with that dread disease, 
carelessness, and so long as we get ‘‘ ours ”—no 
matter how we get it—we do not care much for 
aught else. 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 123 

Still, to despair would be sinful, and it is a safe 
prophecy that some day we will assay this great 
mass of useless humanity with the acid of honest 
work and will sift from it men for the shops and 
factories and fields and men for the workhouse; 
And the day will surely come when the whining 
wail of the mendicant will be changed to the clang¬ 
ing anvil song of toil, the divine epic of man’s hon¬ 
est labour. The shibboleth of loaferdom, ‘‘ I can’t 
find work,” is long exploded, and it is our duty to 
prove it. 

It did not take us long to come to these conclu¬ 
sions, because sameness makes deductions easy, and 
here was sameness everywhere. My pastor, sad¬ 
dened and disproven, wanted to get away from this 
sight of human wreckage. But he was in my realm, 
my old hunting grounds, and not wishing to have 
him leave with the impression that in my bailiwick 
only drones were to be found, I prepared to show 
him another picture of a different sort in my own 
territory. 

Making our way through parks where men 
were fighting for the. possession of benches to 
stretch their limbs until the cold or the policeman 
put them again in motion, and through quiet streets 
in the business section, where we saw men huddled 
in the shelters of empty packing cases to protect 
themselves from, the chilling blasts oh night, we 
reached at last the point where we had started. We 


124 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


turned southward and a few steps brought us to 
a region which was the absolute extreme of the land 
of idleness just left by us. 

Emerging from the obscure purlieus of Park 
Row—the continuation of the Bowery—we stepped 
into a haze of shriller shade, in which moist vapours- 
told us of the presence of that great master work¬ 
man, steam. My pastor gazed at the bright vision 
before him, for even the many lights betokened a 
sphere of activity. Then, as we stood there, and 
just as the golden hands on the clock of St. Paul’s 
Church met at II. to breathe to one another their 
good morning kiss, we felt the very earth beneath us 
shake off its last remnant of lethargy. From the 
pressrooms underneath the walks came rumbling, 
throbbing noises, increasing with each revolution 
of the intelligent iron monsters until the streets re¬ 
echoed with a great sounding anthem, a grand tri¬ 
umphal song of brain, energy, and industry. And 
from the towering chimneys on the roofs above us, 
in darkish, smokish clouds, or whitish, willowy 
streamers, this other waking of the Midnight City 
was heralded to all the world. 

Here—what a contrast to what we had left!— 
were no drones. The very air about us thrilled 
with a strenuousness in which the fraction of each 
second was surcharged with an awakening respon¬ 
sibility. 

Clusters of boys and men were hanging about 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 125 

the different newspaper offices. My pastor thought 
he had stumbled across a splendid opportunity for 
charity and encouragement. Putting his hand into 
his pocket, he approached a boy who stood at the 
curb in front of the distributing room of a news¬ 
paper. 

‘‘ Here, my poor boy,’’ he said. “ You must be 

cold and hungry. Take this and-” 

‘‘ Don’t do it, doctor,” I stopped him. Then I 
turned to the boy. You’re waiting for your pa¬ 
pers, aren’t you? ” 

“ Surest thing you know.” 

'' You’re not broke and you don’t want anybody 
to give you any money ? ” 

“ Well, I guess not,” said my little pal, pulling 
a handful of pennies from his pocket. ‘‘ I got 
eighteen cents for stock money and I’d like to 
see any o’ the other kids beat me on that.” 

Bully for you. Young America, but—some of the 
spectre army also had that spirit at your age. 

Every profession and trade has its spectacular 
side, but none can compare with the pageantry of 
feverish intensity displayed at this shipping of jour¬ 
nalistic ware. And the handlers of it, the men and 
the boys, glory in the rivalry of their vigour. They 
know that moments count, and hustle their bundles 
into the waiting waggons, while the atmosphere is 
permeated with the damp, inky smell, so dear to this 
midnight crew. And mighty interests all bow to 



126 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

this dominating profession which thrives so well 
at night. 

Uncle Sam on wheels has precedence over all 
others, even when only represented by the night- 
hawk mail waggon. All must give way to him, even 
ambulances and fire engines. Now, when a railroad 
system, a ferry company, a number of trolley lines, 
and even Uncle Sam, unite in smoothing the way 
for another power, that power certainly must be a 
mighty one. 

While the last bundles of newspapers are thrown 
into the waiting delivery waggons the track is being 
cleared for the races of the night. The ferryboat 
from the Jersey shore backs into its slip and is 
ready for another load of passengers and freight. 
But no waggon or vehicle is permitted to get on 
board. Mail waggons, milk carts, farmers’ trucks 
are ranged in line beside the ferry entrance and 
must be careful not to encroach even an inch on 
the roadway which leads to the boat. Eventually 
several policemen appear from their various hiding- 
places and cosey corners and lend their pompous 
dignity to the scene. The trackman at the inter¬ 
secting crossings of the trolley lines lights a red 
lamp and assumes an air of great suspense. Warn¬ 
ings to the stranger to get out of the way are plenti¬ 
ful and forcible. The quiet becomes more and more 
oppressive, and—what is it all about? 

They will not answer you, but might point up 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 127 

Cortlandt Street. You look up that deserted, empty 
street, on which not a living being is visible, and 
doubt the reason of your informant. But just as 
you are about completely disgusted with all this 
tomfooling and give one last look up Cortlandt 
Street, you see a tiny black spot popping into sight 
around the distant corner of Broadway. And there 
are more and more black specks, and before your eye 
has winked again a Bedlam on wheels comes like 
a maddened, maddening torrent, clashing, clatter¬ 
ing, roaring, tearing, with all the fury of cyclonic 
gait, through the dark canyon of the narrow street. 
The swirling wheels strike angry sparks, the horses 
are flecked with froth from their own mouths, but 
on they go. 

There is no turning of heads. All urge forward. 
The race through the last block becomes a wild 
chaos of snorting horses, swaying waggons, and 
whipping, shouting crazy men, until they all—men, 
waggons, horses—crash on to the boat, with only 
half their run accomplished. After them comes not 
the deluge, but just the other ordinary trash on 
wheels. 

The boat does not lose a moment in starting. 
While in transit the men sort their papers and get 
them ready for train delivery in Jersey, where the 
race is continued. There the road is also cleared 
for them until the papers are flung into the waiting 
cars and the trains carry them to their ultimate 


128 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

destinations. But there the pastor and I did not 
follow. 

We turned homeward. 

Passing the newspaper offices where a few min¬ 
utes ago all had been hustling and struggling, we 
met a crowd of men, jaded and tired. Their work 
had just been finished. They were the men who, 
each in his own way and place, had put their very 
best of mind and soul into the sheets now travelling 
westward; who had scribbled and clipped, had 
^phoned and clicked, had been going at nerve-killing 
pitch throughout this long night that the readers 
might have their paper with the breakfast coffee. 
No, facetiousness should not revile the truth. I 
have met these brainy workers of the midnight 
hours, I have worked with them, and know how 
high their aims do aspire. Little of sordidness is 
among them, but much of nobility of spirit, much 
devotion to duty and true friendship. Among them 
I have learned to understand the power of the press, 
and from among them came the man who told me 
that to become a worthy writer one must always 
write the truth and write upward. 

My pastor was tired. He scarcely glanced at the 
tired writers, those faithful workers of the night 
who never meet the idle wanderers of the street. 
Their ways lie far apart, for the former are men 
of highest industry, the others are men of lazy care¬ 
lessness—and oil and water do not mix. 


THE MIDNIGHT CITY WAKES 129 


We had seen the extremes of conditions in the 
waking hours of the midnight city, and it had stirred 
our pity and our pride. Our walk had also given 
us food for thought, and it is my hope that the re¬ 
cital of our experience will also induce my readers 
to think about the condition mentioned here, and, 
perhaps, suggest a remedy. 


VIII 


A LEGATEE OF LOVELESSNESS 
ONG the many unheard-of things in the 



slums IS the science of genealogy. Owing 


-^to the absence of the genealogical fad, the 
origin and ancestry of the Kid were shrouded in 
densest obscurity. Had it not been for the racial 
mosaic in his features, the accident of his birth 
would have passed entirely without comment. But 
the composite effect of the formation, angle, and 
colouring of his face was such that no one could see 
it without feeling a desire to “ know all about it.’' 

Questions like “Of what nationality are you?” 
“ Where were you born ” “ Who was your 

father ? ” became so frequent and monotonous that 
the Kid fled at the approach of persons unknown 
to him. 

They of the neighbourhood—^Chinatown and its 
immediate vicinity—were divided into two factions 
concerning the Kid’s classification. One-half 
thought it evident that the Kid was negro and 
white, while the other half was just as certain that 
he was Chinese and white. The factions never got 
into heated controversies about this difference of 
opinion. They were content to “ let it go at that,” 
and never “ lost any sleep over it.” 


A LEGATEE OF LOVELESSNESS 131 

The Kid’s existence was so matter-of-fact that 
he was the last to be bothered by the shadow of the 
bar sinister. His days were so taken up with the 
striving after the attainable that he had no time 
for unprofitable speculation. To balance his life 
well was his aim. The prevailing tone of the local¬ 
ity was not against work, but liked it best in small 
doses, while viciousness was preferred to out-and- 
out criminality. So the Kid wanted to strike a 
fair medium between having to work and having to 
steal for a living. 

To accomplish his purpose, the Kid had to over¬ 
come many obstacles. But the most severe handi¬ 
cap was that he had to fight and stay entirely alone. 
His racial legacy was answerable for this. 

Children are gregarious. The Kid, too, before he 
understood, had tried to join the playing children 
on the smooth asphalt pavement in Mott Street. 
His debut counted few minutes. The horde of boys 
and children immediately formed itself into a charg¬ 
ing mob, and, crying “ Chink! chink! ” in vindic¬ 
tive derision, drove the Kid away. And they were 
not all white children. Many Chinese tots, in many- 
coloured costumes, were on the side of caste-de¬ 
fence. Youthful discretion had drawn rigid lines. 
They of the rainbow-hued garments were pure 

Chinese,” while he of the mosaic features was 
mongrel, and therefore ‘‘ Chink.” 

Not imbued with revolutionary tendencies, the 


132 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Kid accepted conditions as they were and lived 
alone. A few of the women in Pell Street employed 
him for occasional errands, and the Kid, with a 
certain degree of safety, could figure on at least 
four nights a week in bed and a mildly fluctuating 
bill-of-fare. 

His rapidly growing stoicism helped him to look 
at the situation without much dissatisfaction. He 
felt that, so far as eating and sleeping were con¬ 
cerned, “ he had no kick coming.” His pleasures 
were confined to watching the playing children in 
Mott Street from a very, very safe distance—and 
envying them. 

One day he appeared followed by a dog. In the 
opinion of those who deigned to notice the pair they 
were well matched; the dog, too, showed the bar 
sinister. Knowing the peculiar spirit of the neigh¬ 
bourhood, the Kid did not think it wise to mingle 
too freely among the people with his new find. 
The Power house in Bayard Street, with deep door¬ 
ways and corners affording some seclusion, was, 
therefore, chosen as future “ hang-out.” 

To see a tandem of stray waif and stray dog is 
no unusual sight in that bailiwick. But that the 
Kid, apparently the most uncompanionable of boys, 
should have formed such a partnership invited at¬ 
tention. 

I spoke to him about it. 

‘‘ Where did you get the dog, Kid ? ” 


A LEGATEE OF LOVELESSNESS 133 

“ What dog A strainedly puzzled expression 
was forced to take the place of self-consciousness. 

I pointed at the mongrel sunning itself at the 
curb. 

“ Him ? He don’t belong to me. He’s only lay¬ 
ing there. He’s only a mut.” 

Passing the Power house that night I noticed the 
Kid and the dog huddling together in a sheltering 
corner. A few mumbled words made me halt, and, 
leaning against the railing, I could observe without 
being observed. Fragmentary phrases came to me 
in the staccato speech of street-Arabia. 

‘^You’re me dog, ain’t you?” “They ain’t go¬ 
ing to swipe you, because you ain’t much, but 
you’re all right at that, and, anyway, I couldn’t 
have nothing better nohow.” “ You and me is 
friends, ain’t we?” All this was accompanied by 
boyish hugs and canine kisses. 

My interest did not abate, and a few days later 
I again asked the Kid how he and the dog “ were 
making out.” 

“ Ain’t I told you he ain’t me dog? ” he answered 
angrily. “ He’s only a mut.” 

“ But you are always together.” 

“ Well, what can I do if he keeps follering me 
’round? Gee, I wouldn’t have a pup like that.” 

It cannot be surmised if the Kid would have per¬ 
manently denied his ownership of the dog. At 
every inquiry about “ his ” dog the Kid would claim 


134 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


that the mongrel was not ‘‘ his’n,” and it needed a 
catastrophe to settle the relationship. 

It had been a stifling hot day in June. Even the 
“ old clones market at the end of Bayard Street 
had closed its haggling strife earlier than usual. 
The street—saving an occasional policeman leaving 
or entering the station house across the way—was 
deserted. The heat under foot and overhead—the 
Kid's extremities were unprotected at both ends— 
had exhausted the boy, and, followed by the dog, 
he sought the shadows of the Power house. 

It was too hot to talk or do anything, and, ere 
long, the Kid had drowsed into slumber. The dog 
would have followed the master's example, but the 
flies were peskily annoying, and, worse, a tantalis¬ 
ing smell came from the tinker-shop next door. It 
was a smell of frying and cooking, and went right 
to the very insides of his dogship. 

To resist such allurement was beyond the power 
of doggish endeavour. Besides, as master and dog 
had often visited the kitchens of friendly shop¬ 
keepers, the duty of investigation was obligatory. 
The dog rose, stared at the boy with mute invita¬ 
tion, and slunk to the tinker-shop. 

His partner had scarcely disappeared through the 
door of the shop when the Kid awoke with a 
yawn. The absence of the dog was noticed imme¬ 
diately. 

I bet some o' them fresh dago kids from the 


A LEGATEE OF LOVELESSNESS 135 

next block got away with him. Maybe I won't 
soak some o' them if they got the pup," murmured 
the Kid, and started in pursuit. 

He had just reached the tinker-shop when some¬ 
thing, in sweeping curve, came from the doorway 
and landed in the street with grunting thud. 

Without wasting word or look, the Kid swerved 
from the sidewalk and lifted the doomed mongrel 
to his arms from the pitiless street. Just a trifle 
paler, he restrained his fury until he stood before 
the sergeant's desk in the station house. Then he 
literally howled for vengeance. The officers 
laughed, took the whimpering animal by force to 
put it out of misery, and told the boy to get himself 
another dog. 

Seeing that no redress was obtainable, he asked 
them to mind his dog's body, and started on another 
errand. The crowd which always, and seemingly 
from nowhere, gathers around the station house 
stoop at the slightest provocation, jeered and 
sneered, but the Kid did not even see them. 

Within an hour he returned with a ‘‘ society's 
agent." The case proved too weak for prosecution; 
the agent assured himself that the dog had been 
humanely put to death, and, with a word of conso¬ 
lation to the Kid, departed. 

The tinker could not forego the pleasure of en¬ 
joying his victory, and stepped to the door to gloat 
over the defeated champion of the mongrel cur. 


136 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ Say, Kid, so you was going to have me arrested 
for finishing that kyoodle o’ your’n ? ” 

The Kid did not fly into a passion. 

“You wait! You just wait! I’ll get hunk on 
you before night,” he growled, and scowled. 

The Kid hung about until the lamps in the 
tinker’s store windows were lighted. As soon as 
darkness had settled he ran to the corner, where a 
new tenement house was in course of construction, 
and helped himself liberally from a pile of bricks. 
In less than a minute its usual allowance of nightly 
excitement had been furnished to the street. The 
windows of the tinshop were wrecked, the tinker 
was making his frantic complaint to the sergeant 
at the station house, and the Kid, in the grasp of a 
policeman, and oblivious to the comments of the 
crowd, stood quietly awaiting his fate. 

“What d’you do it for?” asked the sergeant, 
leaning over the desk. 

“ He killed me dog.” 

“ That doesn’t give you the right to smash his 
windows, does it ? ” 

“ I don’t care. He killed me dog.” 

“Oh, you don’t care? Well, then, you’ll get 
locked up, and stay there till you grow up and 
know better than to break people’s windows.” 

“ I don’t care. He killed me dog, and if I got 
to go to jail I’ll kill him when I get out,” said the 
Kid, without vehemence, and looking straight at 


A LEGATEE OF LOVELESSNESS 137 

the sergeant. ‘‘ And if I don’t get out, me friends’ll 
kill him,” was added as an afterthought. 

Poor Chink! The stress of the moment inspired 
him to claim for his own what he had never had— 
friends. 

‘‘Oh, you’re a killer, are you?” commented the 
sergeant. “ Then I can see your finish. They’ll 
take all that killing business out of where you’re 
going. Chink.” 

“ They can’t. I’m going to get hunk on him— 
or me friends is,” insisted the Kid as they led him 
away. 

This unbending spirit of revenge seemed unnatu¬ 
ral in a boy. Neither sorrow nor fury brought 
tears, the weapon and solace of children, to his 
eyes. 

I went to the “ prisoner’s pen ” in the court-house 
to see if the Kid was prepared to take his “ medi¬ 
cine.” His mood was unchanged, and my greeting 
was a sullen scowl. 

“ I suppose you are sorry for what you did last 
night?” I asked. 

“ I ain’t sorry for nothing,” he answered, with 
flashing eyes. “ Me—^me dog ain’t alive no more 
this morning than he was last night, and—^but you 
see if I don’t get hunk on that guy. I’ll do him 
the minute I get out.” 

“ You must stop that sort of talk. Besides, you 
haven’t been sent away yet.” 


138 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

The Kid looked at me with a mingling of con¬ 
tempt and worldly wisdom. 

“ Ah, what’s the use o’ talking like that ? What 
chance do I stand ? ” 

It was true. He was of no moment to the leader 
of the district, had no friends to intercede, and 
stood absolutely no chance. To incite false hopes 
in him would have been cruel, and the best I could 
do was to paint his lot in milder colours. 

“ It isn’t half as bad at the Refuge as you boys 
think it is. Be a good boy, do your work well, and 
you’ll forget all about this by the time you get 
out.” 

‘‘ Ah, why don’t you chase yourself? ” came with 
accentuated hardness. “ What’ll I be a good boy 
for? And I ain’t going to forget, neither.” 

Before I could get the Kid to take a more hope¬ 
ful view of the situation his name was called and he 
was taken to the court-room. I did not follow. His 
fate was ordained, and only the routine had to 
be observed. But the judge was known to be a 
man given to much fatherly lecturing, and I half 
expected to see the Kid return with a tear-stained 
face. They shortly brought him back—and his 
eyes were still dry and hard. 

‘‘ Well, I got it all right,” he said, perfectly un¬ 
moved. ‘‘ Say, that guy up in court, that judge, 
he don’t know nothing about law. I told him all 
about it, that all I done was to get hunk on the 


A LEGATEE OF LOVELESSNESS 139 

tinker, and then he starts in telling me that I was 
wicked and all that kind o’ stuff. There ain’t no 
justice when a tinker can go to work and kill me 
only—me dog. But I’ll do him when I-” 

“ Look here, Kid,” I interposed. ‘‘ Be a man and 
stop your bragging talk. You got your ‘ bit,’ and 
now make up your mind to do it, and to get out as 
soon as you can. And then, if you have behaved 
yourself and need a friend, you can come to me 
and- 

“ Gee, I don’t need no friends. I got lots o’ 
them,” lied the boy deliberately. “ Only I didn’t 
want any o’ them to know that I got pinched for 
anything like this, and that’s the reason there ain’t 
any o’ them here. And you,—I bet you’d forget all 
about me by the time I get out.” 

Before I could assure him of my lasting memory 
he was taken to the wire-screened waggon of the 
institution. The departure was delayed for a few 
moments, another boy just “ getting settled,” but 
my efforts had been so unproductive of cheering 
or impressing the boy that I did not force myself 
on him any longer, and remained in the doorway 
of the court building. His efforts to avoid my eyes 
were most conspicuous. 

Then the other boy was escorted to the waggon, 
and I prepared to leave. I intended to say farewell 
to the Kid, but he anticipated me and called me to 
the waggon. 




140 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Say, did you mean what you said inside ? ” he 
asked in a whisper. 

Taking me unaware, I did not know instantly to 
what he referred. 

“ Oh, you know,’’ continued the Kid, shame¬ 
facedly, “ that about you being me friend, provided 
I-” 

Oh, that! ” I cried. ‘‘ Why, of course. Kid, I 
mean it.” 

Well, you know, most o’ me friends is liable 
to be away, or moved, or something, by the time I 
get out, and I thought maybe I—you—anyway, I 
guess I’ll think it over.” 

The day was hot. The flies were out in full 
force and must have bothered the Kid, for just as 
the waggon turned the corner I saw his hand go 
to his face. 


The Kid thought it over. 



IX 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 

T he contemporaneous history of our great 
cities gives abundant proof that practically 
all of the men to the fore in municipal 
and industrial affairs are not natives of the city of 
their adult residence, but are immigrants, having 
come to the sphere of their most profitable use¬ 
fulness from rural communities. Newspapers and 
periodicals persist in offering us the biographies of 
these men, and their triumphal, if strenuous, progress 
toward success is supposed to incite the youth of 
the land to go and do likewise. Perhaps these 
biographical stimulants have helped some to make 
their fortunes—if gifted with the knack of read¬ 
ing between the lines—^yet, at best, the value of 
these highly coloured testimonies of efficiency is 
very problematical. 

The day seems past when the country lad, duly 
garnished with whisps of hay and carpet-bag, 
found this make-up his best recommendation and 
passport into the very innermost offices of great 
merchant princes. These same merchant princes 
have no compunction about lauding the country boy 
at the many gatherings graced by their presence 
141 


142 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


and eloquence of a certain sort, and with tears in 
their soulful eyes they will tell you how their hearts 
go out to the timid lad from the flowery fields, 
but the soulful eyes and the beating hearts will, on 
the morrow, be safely screened behind mahogany 
partitions, behind which the lured lad from Spof- 
ford’s Corners can never penetrate. 

And growl about the dearth of American 
humourists! Attend one of these spreads, at which 
some self-made captain of industry is advertised to 
tell how it happened, and you will find the formula, 
which he guarantees to have been the one to help 
him to his millions, the neatest bit of salient wit. 
Approaching in humour is the frenzied endeavour 
of some of our fellow-millionaires to save them¬ 
selves and families the unpardonable disgrace of 
dying rich. Neither should we overlook the contra¬ 
position of some of their advice. “ Go West, 
young man, go West,’^ sounds somewhat uncon¬ 
vincing, when uttered by one who came the other 
way and stuck there against all endeavours and 
offers of free transportation to ship them out, way 
out West. 

So much for the one side. The other side, also, 
will prove that the country lad has shown remark¬ 
able adaptability. 

Police and prison records prove beyond a doubt 
that the leaders in criminal pursuits are country 
born. It is an established fact that the shrewdest 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 143 

confidence men, the most daring burglars, and the 
most desperate train robbers are products of the 
soil, which gives us besides corn, buckwheat, and 
David Harums. Even our great financial crooks, 
after wrecking banks or corporations, point with 
justifiable pride at their humble beginning there 
where the old oaken bucket provides primitive tip¬ 
ple. A casual observer might be led to believe that 
the old order of things has been reversed. The 
‘‘ Hayseed is no longer in danger of ‘‘ being done 
by the city sharp; he is prepared and ready for a 
little ‘‘ doing ” on his own account. Corroborative 
proof of this came to my notice the other day in the 
advertising columns of a periodical: ‘‘ How to Beat 
Wall Street, will bring you millions. Address Box 
156, Oshkosh, Rural Delivery.’^ 

If one is sufficiently unsophisticated to accept the 
rhetorical indorsements of the country boy at their 
face value, one will be compelled to believe that 
at spelling bees and other social functions in our 
rural territories the welfare of our cities furnishes 
the one topic of edifying discussion. Could one be¬ 
lieve these tales one would see at once that the pro¬ 
pelling motive which is responsible for this immi¬ 
gration is a great desire for our reformation. We 
are bad, rotten to the core, and nothing but the pure 
humanitarian self-sacrifice of Ebenezer or Hiram 
can prevent us of the city from being eternally 
damned. And so, propelled by this noble motive. 


144 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


these crusaders of political and commercial purity 
tear themselves away from their homesteads and 
offer themselves to the commonwealths to make 
them as good and pure—as themselves. 

Noble lads, may Heaven visit some function upon 
you. 

That occasionally a brave country boy finds the 
road to riches sprinkled with too many obstacles 
is owing to the lack of organisation. A body of 
men having for its aim the amelioration of the 
human race at the expense of personal sacrifice, viz., 
the united miners, plasterers, truckdrivers, bar¬ 
tenders, barbers, and walking delegates, must be 
thoroughly organised to be of greatest boon to the 
community. Were the United Rural Invaders 
better organised it is safe to say that not one of 
them would ever fall by the wayside of the road to 
riches. 

As it is, the city is still empty and still beckon¬ 
ing the lad of the fields to come and bring his much- 
needed sinew and brains to invigorate the effete 
resources of the mighty whirlpool. And because 
this call is not always understood, and because the 
“ United Rural Invaders ’’ are not yet solidly estab¬ 
lished, a straw-haired lad from verdures green will 
frequently find his reception in the city not the most 
cordial thing in the world. 

Next to the circus, the travelling salesman is most 
welcome in small towns and villages as entertainer. 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 145 

Wherever his basis, it becomes for the time being 
the hub of the community. By the very nature of 
his calling the drummer is a sociable creature, and 
it is no difficult matter to entertain a crowd of 
minds satiated with such thrilling news items as 
offered by the town sheet. To read day after day 
in the personal column—“ Mary Corncob, having 
wrenched her knee, is having it rubbed with kero¬ 
sene by her sister, Lizzie'’; “John Chadlin drove 
through Muncy yesterday. Let her drive, John.” 
and so forth—will produce a state of mind that will 
even be susceptible to the humour supposedly lurk¬ 
ing in the prehistoric gag, “ Why does a chicken 
cross the street ? ” 

The drummer must expand his popularity. 
Every man, woman, or child met by him can be of 
use to him, and he must play the agreeable to all. 
Scarcely a drummer trails the road who has not a 
fund of risque and daring stories, plentifully sup¬ 
plemented by a budget of recent city scandal. The 
older inhabitant has his memory refreshed by these 
tales—he has been to the city: the youth has his 
curiosity awakened—and determines to see these 
things for himself in the city. But to his parents 
he will interpret,his longing as a holy desire to go 
into the world to make his fortune, to liquidate the 
mortgage, and to enable Sister Melinda to become a 
subscription agent for a home periodical. 

The fate of these boys in the city is invariably 


146 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


sad and terminates badly. Knowing the city only 
from the drummer's tales, they are attracted by the 
cesspools and become submerged in them. I have 
been told that, once upon a time, boys went to the 
city to leave fewer mouths to feed at home, to find 
education or a living, even a fair competence, and 
that, above all, they were reasonable in their aims. 
Now, with so many from the field and farm among 
the money kings and magnates, the boys come 
largely with but the one desire—to emulate these 
high priests of the golden calf. 

Of one thing we can be fairly certain: country 
boys arriving in the city are never bothered with 
excess baggage in money. Brought up in frugality, 
compelled to it by shortness of means, they, some¬ 
how, locate themselves in such neighbourhoods in 
the city where frugality and penuriousness live as 
twins. I am not the one to advise wastefulness 
or extravagance, but there is such a thing as erring 
on the side of wisdom. Frugality in the city is ac¬ 
companied by many deteriorating conditions. New 
York, Philadelphia, Chicago, and other large cities 
all have certain localities which are notorious for 
their “ cheapness." Yet, besides this reputation for 
inexpensiveness, these neighbourhoods are also no¬ 
torious for less innocent traits. The “ cheapness " 
of food, lodging, and other necessaries attracts the 
most undesirable patronage and precludes any pre¬ 
tence at quality. But to these localities the lad from 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 147 

the country possessed of frugal habits will drift un¬ 
consciously. Perhaps he saves in pocket by his stay 
in these surroundings, but yet the margin is dearly 
paid for by the associations formed, the germs 
caught there. 

It has been my good fortune to be of service to 
some of these friendly invaders, and, also, it has 
been my lot to watch the freakish careers of a num¬ 
ber of them. 

Let me cite the case of a devotee to frugality. 

Edward H. came from “ up the State ” to the 
city about three years ago. His assets consisted of 
twelve dollars and a wondrously well developed ap¬ 
petite. Responsible for his coming was the frag¬ 
ment of a speech delivered by a native son of the 
hamlet at the occasion of his immortalisation via 
a drinking pump for man and beast at the cross¬ 
roads. 

The fragment, according to Edward H., ran as 
follows: “ I don't want to insult your intelligence, 
my fellow-citizens, by claiming that I have more 
brain than you. All of you have as much brain as 
I have and could have as much money as I have if 
you were willing to go after it. You all remember 
how poor I was when I left here for the city. And 
I am here to tell you that if any of you were to 
start for the city to-morrow, as I did many years 
ago, it is almost a certainty that you, too, would be 
able to accumulate wealth and could come back to 


148 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


your native town to build pumps or other useful 
and lasting memorials of your industry. Never let 
anybody tell you that there are no more millions to 
be had in the city. There are many millions wait¬ 
ing and ready for those who will take the trouble 
to go and look for them.” 

Edward H. had been taught to follow good ad¬ 
vice and determined to go to the city to look around 
for those waiting millions. 

His leave-taking was sad, yet inspiring. With 
his last look at the old homestead he began to specu¬ 
late how it would look in after years, when pictured 
as ‘‘ His Birthplace.” He also determined to sug¬ 
gest to the parent in his very first letter from the 
city—some things are more safely told by mail—to 
trim his whiskers in more patriarchal style, to be 
in better accordance with the caption of the future 
portrait, His Father, a Prominent and Leading 
Citizen of Horse's Neck.” 

Then he humped himself to the depot, fairly re¬ 
gretting the fact that his pocket was burdened with 
those twelve big silver dollars, instead of that 
“ dollar an' a half,” the proverbial starting capital 
of all self-made millionaires. 

As the others before him, Edward H. found his 
way to the ‘‘ fifteen-cent bunk ” on the Bowery. 
Next door was a restaurant that gave “ square ” 
meals for ten cents; all around were ‘‘ nickel ” bar¬ 
ber shops, cut-rate Chinese laundries, washing shirts 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 


149 


for five cents and other articles proportionately 
cheap; second-hand clothing stores, where men 
could buy suits of clothes from one dollar up, and 
all the other commodities of life were offered equally 
cheaply. It was an easy problem to figure out 
that, at this low rate of expenses, a month could 
be safely employed in looking around for the 
millions or even a rather comfortable and light 
job. 

Edward H. landed there three years ago, and is 
still there. And why? Because he did not con¬ 
sider that in the city, much less than in the coun¬ 
try, a man cannot live alone, but is dependent on 
environment, associations, and conditions. His 
companions in that ‘‘ fifteen-cent bunk were men 
who had come there through some mental defect, 
culminating in the entire ‘‘ swearing-off from all 
honest, steady work. These men, once stranded on 
the Bowery, only leave there by a miracle, and mir¬ 
acles do not happen every day. Their whole striv¬ 
ing consists in devising some means, other than 
work, to prolong their existence, and they become 
permanent features of this weird and filthy nether¬ 
world Bohemia. If they do not actually lead youths 
astray, they are powerful forces for evil by their 
ever-present example. 

The frugality of Edward H. was helped along by 
the counsel of his new-found friends. It was fool¬ 
ish, they told him, to pay ten cents for a meal when 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


150 

he could get as good for a nickel. Of course, these 
hints always obliged him to pay the hinter with a 
meal or something equally as welcome, but, even¬ 
tually, he found himself endeavouring to demon¬ 
strate on how little a man could keep alive, meaning 
thereby expenses, sustenance—and work. 

An easy prey to the virus of perdition, Edward 
H. became a recruit of the vast army of “ has- 
beens ” without knowing it. And his downfall was 
not accomplished by the drinking and dancing 
places of the district, but by his constant contact 
and intercourse with other men, who, through their 
failure, had been compelled to solve the riddle of 
frugality and had mastered the knowledge of liv¬ 
ing on almost nothing in the midst of plenty. A 
few months of this sort of life sapped his manhood, 
and, after that, Edward H. did not care. He is still 
far from the waiting millions, and the picture of 
“ His Birthplace ” is still unpainted. 

As not all boys from the country migrate to the 
slum and dive districts of the cities as their future 
field of activity, I want to cite the case of another 
lad, who never came near the haunts of the openly 
wicked and yet fared no better than Edward H. 

Walter F. first appeared in this city about four 
years ago. He came from quite a distance, was a 
member of a somewhat prominent family in his 
locality, and had received a fair education at a 
near-by academy. The veneer of education dis- 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 151 

closed to him at once the fact that he was too good 
for his own township. To the metropolis he felt 
himself mysteriously called. 

Much better provided with funds than the aver¬ 
age invader, Walter F. established himself at a 
modest Broadway hotel. His academy finish had 
eliminated most of the ‘‘ Rube characteristics ” and 
he had the satisfaction of walking along Broadway 
without being unduly stared at. 

It did not take him long to find that his plum was 
not yet ready to drop, and he thought it advisable to 
exchange his hotel for a decent boarding house. 
The terms asked—ten dollars—were a little more 
than he had intended to pay, but the landlady 
seemed a woman of refinement and the house had 
a certain, if shabby, air of gentility. 

At the table to which he was assigned by the 
landlady he made the acquaintance of two young 
ladies and a young man. The two young women 
were self-supporting, one being a stenographer, the 
other a saleswoman, while the young man was a 
city salesman. In return for this information Wal¬ 
ter F. told his table acquaintances that he had come 
to the city to “ make his fortune.’’ Of course, they 
laughed—they had heard that theme before in many 
variations—yet they offered their aid, and, at any 
rate, promised to make him less lonesome. 

We must be fair to the acquaintances of Walter 
F. The selfishness of the city had eaten to their 


152 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


very bones. They had their lesson learned and 
their primer had impressed upon them to be always 
on the lookout for a “ good thing.” Walter F. did 
not display a stringency of financial resources—not 
until it was too late—and the self-supporting crew 
of wreckers were successful in engineering many 
luncheons and parties at the expense of the country 
lad. 

At last the day came when it dawned on Walter 
F. that work, immediate work, must be procured. 
His academy finish and recently acquired worldly 
wisdom were not of much avail, and it was pointed 
out to him with convincing bluntness that he had 
to begin at the bottom, no matter where he might 
apply. 

In this dilemma his friend, the city salesman, 
showed up splendidly and put him into a place 
which paid just enough to defray his board. There 
Walter F. went to work and there he has remained. 
He has been promoted since then, but the promo¬ 
tion was not in correspondence with his length of 
service. The truth is that he is not deemed an ex¬ 
ceedingly valuable employee. He does his work 
fairly well, but no more than that, and, nowadays, 
employers look for the right kind of spirit in every 
performance. 

It is impossible for Walter F. to change his mode 
of life. The impressions received by him during 
his first plastic period in the city have’proven last- 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 153 

ing ones, and his sallow complexion, his smart 
“ get-up,” his associates, and his frequent ’phoning 
to a well-known poolroom prove that he is head 
and heels in the swim of city life. 

In spite of all this there are people who still be¬ 
lieve in him and his future. Chiefest of these is his 
old mother. Still, it taxes all of her devotion to 
believe in her son, who is so busy that he can find 
but rarely the time to ‘‘ dash off ” a line to his best, 
dearest old friend. 

I know lads from the country not sufficiently 
bright or energetic to compete with the trials of the 
city, and now completely submerged in the swamp 
of misery, but, withal, they were sinners and hon¬ 
est in their striving and they do not write home 
because their hearts are fairly breaking with the 
bitterness of the shame of their incompetence, and, 
though it is wrong to leave the old folks in igno¬ 
rance, I can understand it. But show me the lad 
from the country who becomes so engrossed with 
the affairs of the city that he “ simply can’t find the 
time ” to write home that letter, which is awaited 
with prayers by the loved ones far away, and I will 
show you a bad, and wicked man, unworthy of your 
confidence. 

Of course, no one will claim that every farmer 
lad is destined to ‘‘ go to the bad.” A great many 
of them arrive in the city properly fortified with 
letters of introduction, are received by friends or 


154 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


relatives, and, most likely, become members of re¬ 
spectable households. Yet the great majority come 
here as little prepared as if it was all a jest and not 
the most important step of their lives. 

In these days, when every new fad and fancy can 
have millions of supporters and millions for sup¬ 
port, it is strange that no more is done intelligently 
to welcome the country lad to the city, where, it is 
claimed, his brains and brawn are so sorely needed. 
Side issues of municipal government are constantly 
busy with assuming parental responsibilities. The 
city whelp is not permitted to roam at large and 
according to his free will and the carelessness of 
his parents. The city will feed, clothe, school, and 
even scrub the neglected kid of the tenement. But 
the invading boy from the farm is permitted to do 
as he pleases and is left undisturbed until he breaks 
the laws of the city, which, alas, he does only too 
frequently. 

And at this point it would be quite fitting to have 
it pointed out that a number of semi-charitable in¬ 
stitutions are always ready to receive the poor wan¬ 
derer from the fields. But it should not be for¬ 
gotten that these institutions carry a special line 
of redeemed brands from the burning, and that 
most of them are far from being permanently re¬ 
formed. To come into contact with this human 
scum, always the object point of maudlin and ill- 
directed sentimentality, will contaminate anybody. 


THE WELCOME OF THE CITY 155 

and particularly the lonely boy from the homestead 
in the country. 

Also, a certain class of lodging houses are fre¬ 
quently mentioned in this connection as affording 
temporary stopping-places for the fortune-hunting 
lad. These lodging houses have sprung up within 
the last few years and are supposed to be another 
contribution to philanthropy by a celebrated mil¬ 
lionaire. That they have proven themselves to be 
most satisfying investments is nothing to the dis¬ 
credit of the founder, but that he could not have 
foreseen that they would develop into hang-outs of 
petty thieves and birthplaces of many crooked 
schemes speaks badly for the intellectual quality of 
his benevolent investment. It is along the usual 
tenor of present-day philanthropy: the discovery 
of a fancied and imaginary need; the forming of 
committees; propaganda in meeting-places and 
drawing-rooms, especially in the latter; the collec¬ 
tion of funds; the erection of vast piles with much 
unnecessary display and without regard of the 
tendency of the locality on which this gigantic 
cavern of misery is foisted. We have reached a 
stage where humanitarian endeavour cannot be 
carried on any longer without nickel-plated and 
stained-wood accessories, and it has come to a pass 
when the duty to your neighbour must be duly per¬ 
formed in a palace of charity of granite or, prefer¬ 
ably, marble. It now requires bodies, boards, and 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


156 

miles of red tape to do a Christian act, and men’s 
aches and women’s heart sorrows are carefully 
registered in perfect card systems. 

If you have a boy in the country ready to come 
to the city, be sure of his first landing-place. There 
are homes even in the cities, and many are open to 
honest boys. Ministers, chiefs of police, and news¬ 
paper men will help you in their selection. Do not 
throw your boy into the maelstrom, unless you want 
him to forswear his integrity and fight for the sur¬ 
vival of the fittest. Then he will perhaps win out 
among the rogues and spend his after-years in build¬ 
ing pumps and fountains to square himself with his 
conscience. 


X 




THE TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 



HERE was a wide margin of difference 


between the leaving and the coming of 


Meyer Rabinovitz. It could not have been 


otherwise. In Wilna, although the business had 
been lost, although the son had died just when 
great things were expected of him, and the wife had 
soon followed, wearied and worried into death by 
constant misfortune and persecution, he had still 
been the rabbi, and a shred of venerable respect had 
always been his share. And when it all became im¬ 
possible, and when nothing except America, the 
promised land of the oppressed, seemed to hold out 
a future, even then they showed him honour until 
the very last moment, and escorted him to the train 
which was to carry him and Rebecca to their haven 
of new hopes. 

At Ellis Island it was all different. There was a 
multitude of people, noise, pulling, and shouting; 
but in all that hubbub there was no one to bid him 
welcome. On the night before their release from 
the detention pen Meyer stood looking across the 
craft-stirred waves and felt that in the gigantic city. 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


158 

topped then with mercifully mellowing haze, the 
world would have to shrink just to himself, and 
Becky. 

“ My Becky!’’ 

At their landing there were jeers in plenty. The 
old man, bent with the weight of his lares and 
penates, and the little timid girl had a welcome 
dealt out to them then by the loafing hoodlums, ever 
ready to represent our country to those about to 
visit us. Meyer, escaped from a land of violence, 
shrank in amazement from the threatening fists and 
tried to protect Becky from insolence and rough 
usage. Yet, though his eyes were scared, his rea¬ 
son did not falter, and a strong spirit of stam¬ 
ina braved him to fight his battle at this, his last 
stand. 

Without much fuss he knuckled to his fate and 
set about to make a living for himself and Becky. 
He had not come penniless. A few rubles remained 
still from the fund augmented by the friends in 
Wilna, and, after finding shelter in Chrystie Street, 
Meyer wasted no time in idling. Alas, here the 
cry is for young men, vigorous and trained, and 
old men with bowed shoulders and without trade 
are but little in demand. The small capital dwin¬ 
dled alarmingly, and, as a last resort, Meyer was 
forced to accept the well-meant advice of neigh¬ 
bours as poor as himself. 

On a day as bitter as the shame within him. 


TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 159 

Meyer Rabinovitz started out on his journey 
through the quarter inhabited by the well-to-do 
middle class. Day after day he made his trips, 
only to return with bag as empty as when he left 
his Becky in the morning. The trouble was that 
Meyer had not yet caught our germ of ‘‘ push.’' 

Then an unusual thing happened. A younger 
man in the same calling, who had frequently met 
old Rabinovitz, stopped him one day and gave him 
his first lesson in “ goaheadativeness.” It was an 
overpowering proof of the merciful tendency of 
business competition, and Meyer Rabinovitz was so 
convinced by it that he accepted the proffered 
advice. 

After that Meyer shouted his Cash paid!—Old 
clo’es! ” almost loudly, almost so that one could 
hear it—and felt like apologising each time for hav¬ 
ing made so much noise on the public highway. 

This sort of clothing business is not very profit¬ 
able, even if some of the younger men, especially 
those “ born here,” by means of their aggressive¬ 
ness and shrewdness, leave the streets after a few 
years to open, first, cellar shops, then, regular 
stores. Meyer realised all this; but as it was not 
his intention stay in the “ old-clo’es ” business, 
he was satisfied to eke out some sort of living at 
it for himself and Becky. He had a well-defined 
ambition and hoped to put it into effect some day. 

Home, in Wilna, liberalism of thought had not 


i6o MY OLD BAILIWICK 

been tolerated, and accentuated orthodoxy had 
reigned supreme. Here all was liberalism, even 
verging on sheer radicalism. To combat this dog¬ 
matic reform movement with the age-weathered 
wisdom of the Talmud was Meyer's hope, and, to 
do this, he intended to found a small, but thorough, 
school, where sound doctrine and inspired teach¬ 
ings would fight the renegades, or lead them back; 
and, though the realisation seemed still far off, 
Meyer felt himself nearer to his goal with every 
sale effected. It was this hope, and its nursing, that 
smoothed somewhat the harshness of the old man's 
life. 

In the meantime Rebecca Rabinovitz had utilised 
her opportunities and was quickly adapting herself 
to the process of “ growing up with the country." 
To care for the two dingy rooms did not take much 
time, and many hours were left for ‘‘ getting ac¬ 
quainted." Then the Educational Alliance opened 
a splendid institution for learning, and, prompted 
by fad or sincerity, the young people of the neigh¬ 
bourhood flocked there, sweeping Rebecca along. 

Aided by inherited qualifications and the fund of 
early culture, Rebecca mastered her lessons without 
great effort and progressed with ease through the 
curriculum. At the Educational Alliance she made 
the acquaintance of young people whose parents 
were more prosperous than her own father, and 
was invited by them to their homes. These visits 


TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA i6i 


and her. increasing knowledge disturbed Rebecca’s 
peace of mind. She became dissatisfied with her 
lot and longed for a share in that other world of 
which she had only occasional glimpses. Not that 
she attached any blame for her present unenviable 
condition to her father. She loved him with utmost 
devotion, admired him for his struggles against 
adversity, and resolved to become the medium for 
their mutual elevation. 

To win a scholarship was an easy matter, and 
then there seemed to be no other obstacle to pre¬ 
vent her from preparing herself for her chosen 
career. While not absolutely free from selfish mo¬ 
tives, her purpose, on the whole, was noble. She 
had learned quickly, school had been very pleasant 
to her, and it was but natural that she should wish 
to teach and make the trend of education as agree¬ 
able to others as it had been to her. Graduation 
and examination came in turn, and, after a reason¬ 
able wait, an assignment to teach in an uptown 
school followed. 

This appointment brought the first change in 
their domestic arrangements. The school was at 
least four miles from Chrystie Street, and to travel 
back and forth twice daily would have been a fool¬ 
ish waste of time. During a very short discussion, 
in which Rebecca took and maintained the lead, it 
was decided that they should move farther uptown. 
Of this, flat-hunting was the natural result. 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


162 

For the first time since his arrival in the country 
Meyer Rabinovitz rode on a street car. The in¬ 
congruous appearance and conduct of the pair pro¬ 
voked many smiles. Rebecca, attired in her best, 
which was the neat average uniform of self-reliant 
young women as designed by an East Side modiste, 
swung herself on the car, followed more slowly by 
her father, in greenish-black Prince Albert coat and 
rusty silk tile. Meyer immediately tried to hide 
himself behind the passengers on the rear platform, 
but was not permitted to do so by his daughter. 

“ Come on, father.’’ 

“ Must I go inside and sit down mit you ? ” he 
queried with imploring humbleness, before follow¬ 
ing his daughter into the interior of the car, step¬ 
ping with apologetic mien and fearful of treading 
on people’s toes. 

Seated, the daughter again fell to perusing her 
list of advertised flats and Meyer was left to the 
tortures of self-consciousness. His legs and hands 
were very much in the way and sources of em¬ 
barrassment. He crossed and folded them, but 
could not attain a comforting degree of ease. But 
worse than legs and hands were the eyes of the pas¬ 
sengers on the opposite bench. Letting his glance 
travel stealthily from face to face, Meyer noted va¬ 
rious expressions, from pity to contempt, and all 
directed at him. What, then, was the matter with 
him? Had his tie slipped again over his collar? 


TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 163 

Was the coat, the fine coat, not brushed nice and 
clean? Was- 

In his perplexity to evade the distressing observa¬ 
tion, Meyer had stared right before him, and so 
came to understand. The facing reflection on the 
window on the other side of the car told the whole 
story. It was not so distinct as the picture in a 
looking-glass, but it was sufficiently outlined to 
bring home to Meyer the odd incongruity between 
his daughter, in her fine clothes, and himself, shabby 
in his greenish-black Prince Albert coat, new, many, 
many years ago, home in Wilna. During the re¬ 
mainder of the long ride Meyer tried to shrink 
within himself, to make himself so small that they 
would not see him, but only his beautiful daughter, 
Becky. 

The flat selected was of diminutive size, but the 
many contrivances, the dumb-waiter, the electric 
bells, and others appliances which were understood 
by Rebecca and not by him, proved another incon¬ 
gruity between Meyer and his daughter. 

The homeward trip was made in silence; Rebecca 
was mentally arranging her future life in the flat, 
Meyer was scheming for a flatless future. At the 
evening meal Meyer haltingly stated his ultimatum. 
He would not move up to the flat, but would stay 
in Chrystie Street. Rebecca would not hear of it. 
She loved her old father, and, if she was ambitious, 
he was included in all of her ambitions. But against 



MY OLD BAILIWICK 


164 

her remonstrances and persuasion Meyer advanced 
such plausible reasons that at last he had his way. 

That Rebecca should live alone in the flat was 
out of the question, and a call in the next block 
perfected arrangements by which a friend, also a 
teacher, was to share the new apartment with her. 
One condition she imposed upon her father before 
moving away from Chrystie Street—he was to call 
often, daily, if possible. 

For twenty-four hours Meyer was unable to suit 
himself to the new conditions. He was alone, ab¬ 
solutely alone, for the first time in his life. Rain 
spoiled his business for the day, and even this dis¬ 
traction was denied to him. With the coming of 
evening Meyer endeavoured to pull himself to¬ 
gether. He would go up in a day or two and see 
Becky, and in the meantime he could delve into the 
wisdom of the Talmud. 

The old leather-covered book was carefully taken 
from the place of honour on the mantel, and Meyer 
prepared himself to spend a profitable evening with 
the sages of his race. However—perhaps it was 
the poor light of the oil lamp, perhaps the room 
was too cold or too warm, or perhaps his eyesight 
was not so good as it should have been—at any 
rate, Meyer found reading impossible, and—why 
shouldn’t one have a bit of fresh air on the clear 
evening of the long and rainy day, which had held 
one confined in stuffy quarters? That Meyer ex- 


TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 165 

travagantly took a car and one that went far, far 
uptown was, most likely, an accident, a mere co¬ 
incidence. 

When within a few blocks of his daughter’s new 
house Meyer simply outdid himself in playing the 
farce to an end. Wasn’t it strange that he hadn’t 
noticed where this car was going! How could this 
oversight have happened ? He would call on Heaven 
to witness that he never intended to ride that far 
from Chrystie Street, and, surely, to trouble his 
daughter that night had been very far from his 
mind. Of course, so long as one was in the neigh¬ 
bourhood, it would be the height of impoliteness 
not to make a little call, maybe for a few minutes 
or so. 

He could tell her house from the corner; it was, 
naturally, the finest house in the block. Bravely he 
ascended the three steps to the vestibule with its 
shining brass letter boxes and polished glass, bravely 
he lifted his arm to press the button, under which 
on a neat card his and her name, Rabinovitz, was 
displayed; then, again, he met his reflection in the 
glass of the door—and fled across the street. 

No, he had no right to force himself into his 
daughter’s new and pleasant life. A fine girl like 
Becky was sure to make friends everywhere, and 
they might do the same as the people in the car that 
day—laugh at her for having such a shabby father. 
But no one would know it if he were to come there 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


166 

in the evenings and—and—just stand there a little 
while and look ‘at the fine place where she lived, like 
a real lady. 

Then came evenings of rest for the old, well- 
thumbed book, the companion of many profitable 
hours, and the dust gathered thickly on its covers, 
while Meyer went to call ” on his daughter. 
Night after night he made his humble pilgrimage to 
stand in the shadows, from where he stared with 
reverence, awe, and love at the windows of his 
daughter’s abode. 

Surely Meyer Rabinovitz did not look like a des¬ 
perado, yet, even so, the policeman on the beat was 
obliged to take notice of him after seeing him there 
many times. 

“ Pleas, Mr. Policeman, pleas let me stand here 
a little in the evening. I do nothing, exkoose me. 
Pm nothing now, but in Wilna, ah—but you don’t 
know where is Wilna. But my daughter, my 
Becky, she’s a fine lady; she lives there upstairs. 
She’s a teacher—and a fine lady.” 

Of course the officer did not interfere with the 
old man, and ere long Meyer was so used to his 
sentry duty that a place on the railing, against 
which he leaned throughout his vigils, was quite 
nicely polished from frequent contact with his 
elbow. 

Had the daughter known of this friendly espion¬ 
age she would not have permitted it. Rebecca was 


TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 167 

not at all unmindful of her duty, and called on her 
father in Chrystie Street as often as time permitted. 
Her calls were always preceded by a postal card 
making the announcement. These cards, with their 
clear, legible writing, were Meyer’s dearest posses¬ 
sion and graced the cleanest spot on his grimy wall. 

They were neighbourhood events, these calls of 
Rebecca. From tenement to tenement went the 
message: “ Becky’s down here to see her fa-ather.” 
From the time of her arrival until the time of her 
leaving sentinels were in all doorways to report her 
movements to the waiting others. To be recog¬ 
nised by her, to have a word from her, put one into 
a special caste. 

Meyer was not unaware of all this—and he liked 
it. At her departure he would keep her at the door 
of the tenement house as long as possible that all 
the neighbours could have one last look of pleasure 
or envy at his daughter. And how he liked to hear 
her voice! Why, it was like listening to a concert 
of the band in the park—and all that high-toned 
language! It was this same charming voice which 
informed Meyer one night that he was soon to have 
a son-in-law, a lawyer, smart and clever. 

He could not deny it to himself that the an¬ 
nouncement had given him something of a wrench. 
And then^ was that the way they do it here, in this 
country? Is that all a daughter had to do, to go 
and tell her father that she was going to get mar- 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


168 

ried, without asking him or depending on his coun¬ 
sel? In Wilna- 

Oh, yes, in Wilna it was different; but this was 
America, and Meyer had ultimate faith in the good 
judgment of his Becky. 

Rebecca had promised her father an early intro¬ 
duction to his future son-in-law; but Meyer hoped 
to have a private view of this prospective member 
of his family. He redoubled his vigilance, and 
watched his daughter’s house with an increased in¬ 
terest. Every man entering or leaving the house 
was inspected and weighed by Meyer, but they were 
all found wanting and not good enough for such a 
lady as Becky.” 

At last no mistake was possible, for Becky her¬ 
self came downstairs with him, and Meyer quickly 
turned away when he saw the two heads of the 
lovers bend very near together. 

“ My, but ain’t he the gentleman! ” Meyer was 
ready to admit; yet—‘‘ and ain’t my Becky the lady 
—and a teacher! ” 

Reflecting on the situation, Meyer found himself 
a prey to paradoxical feelings. He wanted and 
didn’t want to meet the future son-in-law. Several 
appointments were made by Rebecca for the father 
and groom to meet, but Meyer always proved de¬ 
linquent. On the other hand, since his first view of 
the son-in-law, Meyer never took his post opposite 
his daughter’s house without being attired in the 



TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 169 

greenish-black Prince Albert coat and the rusty tile. 
It was true the clothes and the hat were very old 
and shabby; but if he should meet the young man 
it would be in the evening, in the street, and the 
darkness would be merciful. Besides, his daughter 
had surely told how her father was a rabbi, a 
learned man from Wilna, and no one has ever seen 
a rabbi without a tall hat. 

Rebecca's flat, except when measured by Meyer's 
standard, was in a neighbourhood by no means 
fashionable. The appearance of a carriage, even a 
livery turnout, never failed to draw a crowd of 
idlers to this speculative spectacle. On these occa¬ 
sions guesses would run wild as to who the opulent 
occupants of the vehicle were to be. Meyer, taking 
his post one evening, saw a carriage with its sur¬ 
rounding crowd in front of his daughter's house. 
He listened to the conjectures and guesses with 
smiling good-nature, feeling instinctively all the 
time that he knew the secret and that he could tell 
them who was destined to roll away in the fine 
coach. Why should he tell them? Maybe they 
were nice people and not loafers; but Becky, she 
was a lady—and a teacher—and these here, why, 
they would not understand. But one of the crowd 
asserted in all seriousness that the janitress—that 
big, fat Irish woman whom Meyer had seen so 
often—was going to drive away in the chariot, and 
that sundered the father's patience. 


170 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Mister, exkoose me, pleas, but I know, I know 
who rides in that carriage,’’ explained Meyer, smil¬ 
ing with gratification and pride. ‘‘ My Becky, my 
daughter, who’s a lady—and a teacher—she’s go¬ 
ing to have a fine ride mit the horses. She has a 
fine gentleman and she’s a lady, oh, so fine.” 

Before Meyer had taken his fingers from his lips, 
having kissed their tips .in tribute to the “ fineness ” 
of Becky, the crowd had shifted its point of focus 
to him. 

‘‘ Hello, there. Sheeny! ” “ Hey, give us a little 

loose chewing out o’ them whiskers o’ you’rn.” 

Get onto his nib’s hat! ” and other exclamations 
told Meyer, who had spent the major part of his 
sojourn in America in the streets, that many mo¬ 
ments of most decided strenuousness were before 
him. His immediate action was wrongly inter¬ 
preted by the witty and humorous ruffians. Meyer 
could not rid himself of the belief that the carriage 
was waiting for Becky and her sweetheart. To let 
the rowdies abuse him there, in front of the house, 
would never do; would a fine gentleman, a lawyer 
clever and smart, marry a girl whose father he had 
seen kicked about in the street ? So Meyer ran, and 
the crowd, seeing him run, ascribed his flight to 
fear. 

But all the toughs in the city could not have 
driven Meyer from the street. It was the one 
chance to see his Becky in all her glory and—well, 


TALMUD MAN FROM WILNA 171 

let them beat him! His permission was not asked. 
His hat was flung into the middle of the street; 
his coat, that old Prince Albert, was torn into 
shrewds; his hair, his face, his beard suffered, but 
through it all Meyer, working with shrewdness and 
unsuspected strength, managed to keep his face in 
the direction of Becky's house. 

He had been right; the carriage was for Becky 
and the son-in-law. Just as Meyer almost de¬ 
spaired, the two, his two children, had come down 
the steps, had entered the carriage and driven away 
to where it was gay and bright, where all the people 
went to theatres and ate in restaurants with white 
damask on the tables, and where Becky was sure 
to be the finest among all the fine ladies. 

As the carriage turned the corner and the proud 
vision vanished, Meyer gave up his little resistance, 
not even deigning to cry for help. But that is not 
sport, without resistance there cannot be sport, and 
the brave citizens of the Commonwealth, having 
with parting kick and cuff sent Meyer into compas¬ 
sionate oblivion, left for their homes, the birth¬ 
places of their citizenship, but poorly satisfied with 
their harmless frolic of the evening. 

The friendly policeman helped Meyer to his feet 
when consciousness returned and wanted him to go 
to the hospital. No, Meyer insisted on going home. 
In his present state of general dilapidation to ride 
home on a car was out of the question. The bones 


1/2 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


ached and the muscles were sore; but even so Meyer 
reached Chrystie Street in the course of several 
hours’ tramp. He was glad of the darkness which 
masked his bloody hideousness and covered his en¬ 
trance to the tenement. Once in the little room it 
all did not matter very much. 

The looking-glass over the dresser showed the 
damages, the bleeding eyes, the swollen nose, and 
the torn cheeks; the coat, the Prince Albert, and the 
hat, both bought in Wilna, long, long ago, when 
Meyer Rabinovitz was not beaten, but was treated 
with fine respect, were ruined and battered, and- 

But what was the use? From its place of honour 
came the long-neglected book, and Meyer turned 
to its pages for the solace of wisdom. He was not 
given to much smiling, and to-night in particular 
there seemed to be no good reason for hilarity, yet, 
before turning the next page, he took the glasses 
from his nose, and, smiling, murmured to himself: 
“ Meyer, you’re a fool! This is all different. This 
is a new world. This is for Becky, who’s a lady— 
and a teacher. What do you want, Meyer? Ain’t 
you had yours home, in Wilna? Do you want to 
be everything every time? Go ahead and read 
your book. You’re a fool, Meyer, believe me, 
you’re a fool! ” 

And Meyer read way into the night. 



XI 


THE BOWERY MISSION 

I T IS a sad and pathetic condition when a street 
or locality owes its fame to its viciousness. 
For many years the Bowery was known as 
one of the most wicked, if not the most wicked, 
street in the world. There was ample justification 
for this notoriety, as I, from over thirty years on 
the Bowery, can testify. Externally there is no 
resemblance between the Bowery of to-day and the 
Bowery of about ten years ago. In the olden days 
not a block was without its concert hall—merely 
another name for brothel—its dive, its gambling 
hell, and its bilking house. There was no pretence 
about them. They were openly conducted, adver¬ 
tising themselves by garish posters or loud-mouthed 
barkers. Then, the Bowery—no matter how the 
rest of the town fared—was always wide open. To 
day flagrant vice has departed from the Bowery. 
Only one concert hall remains, and the other ne¬ 
farious occupations are conducted very much on 
the quiet, and not with very great profit. 

During the day the Bowery appears as many 
other streets in the city. There are banks, office 
173 


174 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


buildings, and a wealth of stores, all attracting thou¬ 
sands of transients. The day on the Bowery is 
busy and ultra-respectable. At night quiet reigns 
supreme. Often have I been asked by visitors in 
sheer amazement: “ And is this the Bowery, the 
wicked, tough Bowery?’’ To which I had to an¬ 
swer in the affirmative. 

While in former years it was not advisable to 
take long walks on the Bowery, especially if one 
bore the outward marks of prosperity, one may 
now walk from Cooper Union to Brooklyn Bridge 
without running even the slightest risk. 

Still there is to-day as much need of rescue work 
on the Bowery as when the old Bowery Mission 
was first started. 

The Bowery Mission first opened its doors on 
November 7, 1879. The Rev. A. G. Ruliffson 
and his wife wanted to open a mission on the east 
side of the town. It was their intention to locate 
in the most wicked spot. That was easily found. 
Before beginning work they wisely consulted an 
authority on slum rescue work, Jerry McAuley, 
then leader of the Water Street Mission. He was 
enthusiastic about the project. 

If I could be the means, under God, of estab¬ 
lishing a mission on the Bowery, that is all I would 
ask on earth.” 

His wish was destined to be gratified. 

After many talks and consultations with Jerry 


THE BOWERY MISSION 


175 

McAuley, Rev. A. G. Ruliffson and wife saw their 
way clear and began the work at 14 Bowery. 

Having been born practically “just around the 
corner ’’ from that address, and having been a par¬ 
ticipant in most of the events which went to give 
that locality its unsavoury reputation, I can bear 
personal testimony that a tougher, more wicked 
territory could not have been found cit that time in 
New York. 

In that one block, Chatham Square to Bayard 
Street, were eight concert halls; five gambling 
houses; four fake museum—blinds for lottery 
schemes or indecent exhibitions; seven saloons, not 
one of them conducted legitimately; nine “ ho^ls ” 
of the rankest sort; five lodging houses, ranging 
in price from twenty-five to seven cents; while in 
the adjoining block, in Bayard Street, every house 
—without exception—was a den of ill-repute. In 
addition it must be mentioned that the Whyo gang, 
the Cherry Hill gang, and the Five Points gang 
had their headquarters there, and sometimes worked 
in concert to the discomfort of peaceful citizens, 
and, again, fought their battles in pitched array to 
the bodily injury of inoffensive non-participants. 

The locality was so well liked by the crooked and 
vicious element that space was at a premium, and 
that even the cellars were utilised as headquarters of 
pernicious activity. Two basements—under 15 and 
17 Bowery—were the central station of Barney 


176 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


McGuire, the notorious Sawdust King, who made 
an immense fortune from his many crops of green 
goods,’’ fertilised by the gullibility of greedy yet 
honest fools. Opium dens were operated in a 
number of other basements. 

Human life rated very cheaply in that region, 
and scarcely a building in that block has not sent 
its share to Potter’s Field. 

And there, certainly a promising field, Mr. and 
Mrs. Ruliffson, in a small room, economically fur¬ 
nished, began the work which has prospered so 
mightily. They were alone at first, but such cour¬ 
age as theirs could not long remain unnoticed, and 
gradually they gathered about them a small band 
of Christian friends, who helped with effort, money, 
and prayer. And these pioneers of righteousness 
worked so energetically in this wilderness of sin 
that, ere long, larger quarters became necessary. 
These were obtained and amply fitted up through 
the generosity of Mr. Tibbals, a Broadway mer¬ 
chant. Moved to 36 Bowery, the rescue station 
became officially known as ‘‘ The Bowery Mission 
and Young Men’s Home.” Its supporters, work¬ 
ers, and converts, however, preferred to call it ‘‘ A 
Light in a Dark Place.” 

In its new home the mission grew extensively 
and increased its sphere so that a superintendent, 
Mr. J. Ward Childs, was appointed. For years the 
small band of inspired men and women laboured 


THE BOWERY MISSION 


177 


here until the influence of the Bowery Mission 
began to reach into the far corners of the earth. 
Their means were never abundant, yet thousands 
were fed and clothed, and—the greatest glory— 
thousands were saved from a life of destruction and 
rehabilitated to a Christian life. 

The best proof of the far-reaching influence of 
the mission is given in the incident which resulted 
in bringing the Bowery Mission under its present 
management. 

In the early days of the mission an English sailor, 
on shore to see the sights of the Bowery, and to 
sample its poisonous concoctions, hearing the sing¬ 
ing in the rescue hall, took it for a dive and stag¬ 
gered in. He became another miracle wrought by 
the spirit which dwelt in that mission. Before 
the service was over he was a sober and changed 
man. Work on shore was offered to him, but 
knowing the temptations besetting seafaring men, 
he determined to continue his sailor's career and 
to do missionary work among his colleagues. 
Wherever he sailed, east, west, or south, he pro¬ 
fessed his Christianity and preached the Gospel in 
his plain, unassuming way. Ultimately his efforts 
were recognised, and he was put in charge of a 
mission at Smyrna, in Asia Minor, on the site of 
one of the seven churches mentioned in Revelation. 

There, John Parkinson, true to the teachings re¬ 
ceived by him at the Bowery Mission, laboured 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


178 

willingly for the saving of souls and the spreading 
of the Word. Among his converts was a young 
Armenian who desired to preach the Gospel to his 
fellow-countrymen. Mr. Parkinson knew of no 
better plan to help the young man than to refer him 
to his own Alma Mater, the Bowery Mission, and 
sent him with a letter of introduction to the super¬ 
intendent. In New York the young Armenian was 
entered at the Union Theological Seminary, where 
he graduated with the highest honours. His ability 
and earnestness were so evident that a millionaire 
provided the funds for founding the Asia Minor 
Apostolic Institute at Tarsus, and the devoted and 
brilliant young man, then the Rev. H. S. Jenanyan, 
was placed at its head. Through the institute many 
churches have been established in the Turkish Em¬ 
pire, but Mr. Jenanyan to this day declares himself 
^ indebted for everything to the Bowery Mission. 

But not until a party of New York visitors called 
at his mission in Smyrna did Parkinson have the 
chance to repay his debt to the Bowery Mission. 

Returning from a visit to Palestine, the Rev. Dr. 
T. DeWitt Talmage, the late editor, and Dr. Louis 
Klopsch, the proprietor of The Christian Herald, 
stopped at Smyrna. Attending a meeting at the 
Seaman’s Mission they were deeply interested by 
the testimony of the leader, who told the congre¬ 
gation how eight years ago, a poor, drunken sailor, 
he had been converted in the Bowery Mission. The 


THE BOWERY MISSION 


179 


two New York visitors were deeply impressed by 
the testimony of the saved man, and when Dr. 
Klopsch on his home-coming found that the Bow¬ 
ery Mission, owing to the death of its leader and the 
commercial depression that prevailed at the time, 
was struggling for existence, his sympathy was 
aroused. Convincing himself further of the splen¬ 
did usefulness of the mission. Dr. Klopsch removed 
its immediate financial disabilities, and, to put it on 
a sound basis, had it incorporated. 

The list of incorporators reads like a roll of 
honour, each name standing for a maker for 
betterment: 

Rev. John Hall, D. D., Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, 
D. D., Mrs. Sarah J. Bird, Rev. David James Bur¬ 
rell, D. D., Rev., C. H. Mead, D. D., Rev. Josiah 
Strong, D. D., Mrs. Amelia E. Barr, Rev. Louis 
Albert Banks, D. D., Henry Edwards Rowland, 
Esq., B. Fay Mills, Rev. A. C. Dixon, D. D., Rev. 
Stephen Merritt, Rev. R. S. McArthur, D. D., Rev. 
J. Wilbur Chapman, D. D., Rev. James M. King, 
D. D.; Louis Klopsch, president; B. J. Fernie, vice 
president; G. H. Sandison, secretary; The Chris¬ 
tian Herald, treasurer. 

Special mentioning must be made of one of the 
incorporators, Mrs. Sarah J. Bird. Long before 
she became associated with the Bowery Mission 
Mrs. Bird was an active worker in Henry Ward 
Beecher’s Plymouth Church in Brooklyn. After 


i8o MY OLD BAILIWICK 

the death of her husband, a wealthy merchant, Mrs. 
Bird dedicated all her time and means to evangel¬ 
istic work among the outcast men of the slums. 
Single-handed, and not assisted by a staff of trained 
helpers, without the backing of a church or re¬ 
ligious institution, she went ahead aggressively. 
In a small room in Madison Street, a stone’s throw 
from the Bowery, she met about four times a week 
the motliest crowd that ever listened to the blessed 
Word. And there, like in a garden of weeds, among 
drunkards, petty thieves, tramps, and other outcasts, 
this refined, cultured, devoted lady struggled on to 
reawaken deadened and shrivelled manhood with 
the messages of eternal love. 

With the incorporation of the Bowery Mission 
Mrs. Bird became actively engaged in this larger 
field. For over twelve years she has held meet¬ 
ings at the Bowery Mission on Sunday mornings 
and Thursday evenings. At these meetings she 
“ treats ” the “ boys ” to coffee and sandwiches. 
She is personally known to thousands of men who 
are or were at some time in the past homeless. She 
is always ready to the limit of her means to help 
deserving cases, and the epic of her work is in the 
name, given her by her friends, “ The Mother of 
the Bowery.” 

The life of this godly woman is so devoted to 
the cause that she has given up her beautiful resi¬ 
dence in Montclair and lives at present at the Gospel 



TREATS THE ROYS TO COFFEE AND SANDWICHES 
























4 




I 



✓ 


h 


« 



ft- 


■/ 







THE BOWERY MISSIO-N i8i 

Settlement in Clinton Street, of which she is the 
founder. 

There is still hope, much hope, for the ultimate 
redemption of Bowery outcasts so long as we have 
such women as Mrs. Bird in the work. 

With the assumption of the management of the 
Bowery Mission by Dr. Louis Klopsch and his 
fellow-incorporators, the place was moved to 105 
Bowery, where the scope of work was largely 
increased. 

Sleeping accommodations for two hundred men 
were provided; a spacious restaurant was opened in 
the basement, feeding over two thousand men daily, 
and giving them a square meal for the price of a 
glass of vile liquor, and an enlarged meeting-room 
was fittingly decorated. The restaurant feature of 
the mission was so appreciated that two more eat¬ 
ing places were established at 55 and 262 Bowery. 
Another outgrowth of the new and more enter¬ 
prising spirit prevailing now was a free dispensary, 
which was an inestimable boon to the many broken- 
down and ailing wrecks of the neighbourhood. 

Here the Bowery Mission was just beginning 
to find its true gait, when it met with a sad inter¬ 
ruption in the fire which destroyed the building in 
the spring of 1898. It was a terrible blow, but 
was bravely met by the victims and their friends, 
the workers of the mission. Many lost every bit 
of clothing and everything else possessed by them, 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


182 

but were quickly taken to the Annex at 55 Bowery, 
where clothing and food was given to all sufferers. 

With scarcely any delay the work of the mission 
was continued at the Annex, 55 Bowery, which 
eventually became the central point of all the dif¬ 
ferent movements carried on by the Bowery Mis¬ 
sion. It is a remarkable coincidence that at 55 
Bowery, the present location, one of the most 
notorious dives of the city was once conducted by 
the equally notorious Gombossy. 

It will be conceded that the Bowery Mission in 
its present abode comes very near being the ideal 
mission. The lofty, well ventilated hall has just 
enough of churchly appearance to impress the het¬ 
erogeneous congregation with its dignity. The 
splendid organ, besides providing real music, serves 
also ornamental purposes by its magnificent pro¬ 
portions and elaborate decorations. The panels of 
the walls are inscribed with appropriate quotations 
from the Bible, and everything possible is done to 
make attendance at the services a thing of pleasure 
and edification to the men. 

Five years ago the Bowery Mission was placed 
in charge of Mr. J. G. Hallimond, who has spent 
many years in evangelistic work. Having been 
deeply interested as lay worker in the famous West 
London Mission conducted by the Rev. Hugh Price 
Hughes, Mr. Hallimond came to this country as 
secretary to Ballington Booth, and on the organ- 


THE BOWERY MISSION 183 

isation of the Volunteers of America became the 
national secretary of the movement. Several new 
features were inaugurate by Mr. Hallimond in ad¬ 
dition to the evangelistic work previously con¬ 
ducted by the Bowery Mission. A Young Men’s 
Home was started to shelter the men who gave 
convincing proof of their desire to lead decent 
lives. To facilitate the efforts of the converts to 
find work an employment agency was established, 
which finds positions for over a thousand men an¬ 
nually. Also a tract of land was bought on Long 
Island, to which men, accustomed to such labour, 
were sent to clear and cultivate it. Further, in con¬ 
junction with The Christian Herald, the Bowery 
Mission inspired the summer home for children 
at Nyack-on-the-Hudson, where several thousands 
of children, gathered from the densest and most un¬ 
healthful districts in the metropolis, spend blessed 
vacations of about two weeks’ duration during the 
sultry months of the summer. 

Another institution related to the Bowery Mis¬ 
sion and The Christian Herald is the Bethesda 
Home in Brooklyn, where girls who have met with 
misfortune, or who have made a misstep, can find 
shelter and counsel to equip themselves to begin 
life anew again. 

The Bowery Mission itself is one of the few 
missions that have a direct and immediate influ¬ 
ence on the neighbourhood of its location. Dr. 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


184 

Louis Klopsch and Mr. Hallimond are watchful of 
the critical periods which frequently disturb the 
even tenor of the breadwinners’ lives. In the time 
of strikes or lockouts emissaries from the Bowery 
Mission are making careful canvass in the near-by 
tenements to report and relieve any cases of need. 
There have been times when hundreds of families 
have been fed for days and weeks at a time. 

That the men of the Bowery are always remem¬ 
bered at holidays goes without saying. Are not 
Mrs. Bird and Mr. Hallimond right on the spot? 
But even at other times—and no matter whether 
day or night—the homeless one, the hungry man, 
is never sent away from the hospitable doors. And 
it makes no difference whether the applicant is a 
convert or not. To the large-hearted men and 
women of the Bowery Mission it is enough jus¬ 
tification to be in want. 

It is now twenty-five years since the Bowery 
Mission was opened. At the anniversary which 
was recently celebrated the work of the mission 
was praised in most eulogistic terms by the emi¬ 
nent speakers present to honour the occasion. Every 
word said then was deserved, and yet it was pal¬ 
pably inadequate. The good men present thought 
that because the external appearance of the locality 
had changed for the better—and largely owing to 
the influence of the mission—that the lion’s share 
of the the task had been done, and that nothing 


THE BOWERY MISSIO'N 185 

remained but the singing of inspired paeans of praise 
and thanksgiving. 

If you, during a visit to the Bowery, should be 
impressed by its business-like and respectable ap¬ 
pearance, let Mr. Hallimond and me tell you— 
and we know—^that never was the need of a mis¬ 
sion on the Bowery greater than at the present. 
True, most of the concert halls, gambling houses, 
and crooked joints have gone, but in their stead 
have come the lodging houses, harbouring nightly 
over fifty thousand men, who would be forgotten, 
left to their reeking fate, were it not for the Bowery 
Mission. 

There are so many erroneous conceptions abroad 
that I will try to describe the Bowery population 
in a few words. First of all, whenever you are 
ready to pity or condemn the Bowery “ has-been,” 
do not forget that he stands much closer to you 
than to the people of the slums. Less than two per 
cent, of the men of the lodging houses were born 
in the metropolis or in cities exceeding fifty thou¬ 
sand in population. Add to this that less than 
seven per cent, were born under conditions which 
might be characterised as conditions of poverty, 
and you will not be far from agreeing with me 
and those who know the complexion of the lodging- 
house population that the Bowery, always con¬ 
demned and defamed, is nevertheless the last resort 
and the dumping-ground of all the black sheep and 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


186 

ne’er-do-wells in the country, born and reared in 
good, decent families. Were the men who inhabit 
the lodging houses part and parcel of the neigh¬ 
bourhood they would not awaken half the sym¬ 
pathy these scions of better social shifts receive, 
because the former would live according to a 
routine—most of them work—and would not be¬ 
come so fascinated with the hideous Bohemianism 
of the Underworld. 

And because at intervals some of these black 
sheep can be saved from utter destruction it is that 
the Bowery Mission is so indefatigable in trying 
to save them from their fate. As a peculiar side¬ 
light on the attitude of Christian people I cannot 
refrain from mentioning here, that until about a 
year ago the Bowery Mission was the only means 
of rescue on this thoroughfare of misery and fool¬ 
ishness, on which over fifty thousand men eke out 
their existence. 

I have been very close to the rescue work in this 
city for many years, and have made careful ob¬ 
servations, and have come to the conclusion that, 
with the exception of the Jerry McAuley Mission in 
Water Street, conducted by Mr. S. H. Hadley,* no 
other mission fills its place as well as the Bowery 
Mission. To me it seems like a profanation of 
divine service to combine the worship of God with 
the distribution of bed or meal tickets. This habit 
is very much in vogue in most missions, but for- 
* Mr. Hadley died February 9, 1906. 


THE BOWERY MISSIOiN 187 

tunately is not observed in the Bowery Mission. 
Help is given, freely and amply, but at its proper 
time. In the evening when the wrecks of the Bow¬ 
ery are persuaded by song or personal appeal to 
come into the mission they hear the Word or beau¬ 
tiful singing, but just that and nothing else can be 
gotten at that time. 

In spite of this rule the attendances are remark¬ 
ably large, proving thereby that the Word alone 
can attract sinners, without bribes or material bene¬ 
fit. The platform at the Bowery Mission is not 
given to every theological freak or fanatic. Mr. 
Hallimond knows the invited speakers, and knows 
what they intend to speak about. Whenever Mr. 
Hallimond speaks himself he does not treat the 
men to an extemporaneous harangue on the most 
convenient text, but prepares his address as care¬ 
fully, makes his notes as surely, as if he were to 
speak to a most fashionable congregation. And 
this intelligent treatment is appreciated by the men. 
Many, without becoming publicly converted, attend 
regularly, and little details of improvement in their 
personal attire—such as collars and cuffs, pol¬ 
ished boots and clean-shaven faces—are gradually 
noticed. 

Every Tuesday evening a concert is given. We 
all have a pretty fair idea what these religious en¬ 
tertainments and concerts resemble, at least we 
think we have. These Bowery Mission concerts 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


188 

are a trifle different from other religious concerts. 
They are more human, more perfect, more intelli¬ 
gent, and therefore more successful. Instead of 
having Sister Mary trying to dislocate her neck 
in squeezing the high “ C ’’ from her alabaster 
throat, and instead of having Master Johnny im¬ 
plore the woodman to spare that tree-ee-ee, we have 
sane music, produced by celebrated artists. Among 
the artists who are always willing to contribute 
their talents to making one evening cheerful to the 
Bowery has-been ” are such familiar names as 
Mrs. Rollie Borden Low, Sally Frothingham Akers, 
Evelyn H. Vamo, Gwilym Miles, Hans Kronold, 
Theodore Bjorksten, and many others. 

Everything possible to take the men away from 
their evil associates and discouraging reflections is 
done at the Bowery Mission. To make them in¬ 
quire after the truth a rather promising feature has 
recently been introduced. One evening in the week 
is set aside as question evening. Professor O’Han¬ 
lon is the source of knowledge and is kept exceed¬ 
ingly busy. The calibre of the men is best seen 
in their questions. One asked: ‘‘ Would God ex¬ 
pect me to love my enemy who has wronged me, 
who has been forgiven by me, but who still keeps 
on wronging me ? ” Another asks: ‘‘ Is there any 
hope beyond the grave for any wrong-doer ? ” The 
following question was sent to the platform on 
Players’ Club stationery: ‘‘ Is there predestination. 


THE BOWERY MISSION 


189 


and can we avoid or anticipate it ? ” ‘‘ What is 
the unpardonable sin ? ” ‘‘ Is not God too good to 
damn anybody ?“ Is smoking a sin ? ” and this 
one, disclosing a harrowing domestic tragedy: “ It 
says, obey thy father and thy mother. Is it the 
duty of a child to obey a father and mother who 
are never seen otherwise than drunk, and who have 
neglected and abused their offspring?^’ 

Is there not in these questions an index given 
to the feeling produced in the men by the con¬ 
scientious work of the Bowery Mission? A state 
of mind is created within them which no ranting 
sermon of theological harlequin could ever create. 
They are made to think about themselves, about 
the causes of their downfall, and about the means of 
getting up again. 

To give a definite idea of the work accomplished 
during a year, I give below a table of statistics 
from an annual report: 


Gospel meetings held. 437 

Aggregate attendance . 80,230 

Professed conversions . 5437 

Men and boys sheltered in lodging house. 40,943 

Meals served in restaurant. 628,673 

Patients treated in free dispensary. 2,300 

Employment found for. 1,200 

Kindergarten attendance (3 months). 770 

Attendance at Mrs. Bird’s women’s meetings- 2,300 

Professed conversions at same. 250 

Free meals . 50,850 












MY OLD BAILIWICK 


190 

This is the showing of a single season, but what 
shall be said of the twenty-five years of conse¬ 
crated, unceasing labour on these lines—^years of 
effort for soul and body reclamation? 

The Bowery Mission occupies a place all its own 
among the evangelistic and rescue institutions of 
the city. It is the church of sinners. The ‘‘ has- 
been ” is an emotional creature, a creature of moods 
and reflections. During his reflections it happens 
quite often that the man of the Bowery has the 
church fever ’’ come over him. He cannot ac¬ 
count for it. Perhaps he does not want to give in 
to it, but it has him, and his thoughts run to par¬ 
son, priest, choir, and organ. 

There are reasons why his appearance at one of 
the ‘‘ regular ” churches would not bring out the 
hearty welcome which Christians are always sup¬ 
posed to be ready to give. A few adventurous 
spirits of the Bowery have tried the experiment, but 
vow they will never do so again. Therefore, they 
all, no matter of what creed or colour, find their 
way to our church of sinners and declare it “all 
right.’^ 

The chief aim of the Bowery Mission is spiritual. 
The purpose is to plant the seed in receptive hearts 
and let it work its way out. As Mr. Hallimond, 
the superintendent, puts it, “There is a promise; 
it is the promise of a faithful, loving, just, and all- 
powerful God. He who accepts this promise—ac- 


THE BOWERY MISSION 


191 

cepts it unconditionally—can dispense with depend¬ 
ing on men. He has the best stay and support.’' 
To this Mr. Hallimond added: “Bed tickets are 
not a part of our service.” 

The motto of the Bowery Mission is, “ Always 
open, and open to all,” and the consequence is that 
the superintendent and his assistants are never 
permitted to be lonesome. 

During the winter months, from about Decem¬ 
ber until April, over a thousand men pile into the 
Bowery Mission nightly, i a. m., for a “ prome¬ 
nade breakfast ” of coffee and rolls. I have stood 
there often and have seen that human avalanche 
throw itself down those stairs and I felt glad 
of the cheer that was offered to these unfortunate 
fellows, but felt still better at the thoughtfulness 
which had inspired this “ promenade breakfast ”— 
and at this hour. Have you ever walked the streets 
for a whole night, perhaps for two or more nights 
in succession, with the winds whistling about you, 
the policeman cursing you, and nothing for com¬ 
pany excepting those grey thoughts of “ what 
might have been ” ? If you haven’t had this ex¬ 
perience, try it and you will find that at about one 
or two in the morning, just when your friends 
are turning over to take another hold on sleep, 
something like a steaming hot cup of coffee would 
be easily worth a king’s ransom. And just because 
that sort of feeling creeps over one in the empty 


192 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


street at that hour of the morning, just because of 
that, Dr. Louis Klopsch, Mr. Hallimond, and the 
other splendid men and women in the work have 
arranged to give this cup of coffee at that very 
special hour. Do you know what this arrange¬ 
ment shows, irrespective of its charity and sym¬ 
pathy? It shows that these workers of the Bowery 
Mission understand the situation, and that the lives 
of the poor “ has-beens ’’ are very near to them, and 
they, therefore, accomplish glorious work. 

I have heard this promenade breakfast criticised 
on social and economical grounds, and it all sounded 
very intelligent and scientific—but, somehow, it was 
unconvincing. With the thermometer below zero, 
and the man, but poorly clad, banished to the street 
for all night, it is worth while to take the risk of 
offending sociology by offering the warming cup 
of coffee to the poor, famished creature. 

What more can I say? Whatever sound faith, 
true religion, and inspired prayer can do is done at 
the Bowery Mission. It is a glorious object les¬ 
son, this old church of sinners, showing that faith 
and common sense can well travel along together. 
The sanity of the rescue work and the rescue 
workers is evident everywhere in the methods and 
the results. There is no finer sight than to look 
down from the platform of the Bowery Mission 
and note the many clean-bodied and clean-minded 
men who were rescued from the sea of human 


THE BOWERY MISSION 


193 


wreckage among which they still sit, dotting it 
here and there, like lighthouses to which their 
former brethren should swim to be saved. Con¬ 
verts of the old Bowery Mission have gone forth 
from there to all the corners of the world, but few, 
very few, forget their rebirthing place. 

Of course I do not expect you to be as enthusi¬ 
astic about the Bowery Mission as I am, because 
most likely you have never been inside of it, but— 
and you can depend on it—Mrs. Sarah Bird, Dr. 
Louis Klopsch, Mr. Hallimond, and even myself 
are not the kind of people to waste our lives or our 
efforts on something worthless. There is much 
work to be done, and the work at the Bowery Mis¬ 
sion is not the least important. If you do want 
to know more about the mission, or want to help, 
write to anyone whose name has been mentioned in 
this account, and you will have prompt reply. The 
Bowery Mission needs sinners, money, clothes, and 
a lot of other things—^but above all it needs friends, 
millions of them—and their prayers. 


XII 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 

“Rescue the perishing, care for the dying; 

Snatch them in pity from sin and the grave. ” 

I BELIEVE there are very few among us who 
have not heard and do not love this hymn, 
written by Fanny J. Crosby, our grand poet 
laureate of Gospel song, and W. H. Doane. And 
let us 'hope that, in spite of its refined sweetness, 
both words and melody have found within us the 
permanent echo, which is generally only produced 
by the thundering avalanches of harmony. 

It is a good and blessed hymn for everybody, but 
especially for the men and women who are the her¬ 
alds of the message ‘‘ Come unto Me.” To those who 
have never heard it or have forgotten it, that hymn 
could almost be called the text-book of rescue work. 

I am very glad to have this opportunity of writ¬ 
ing about what I consider the shortcomings in our 
present rescue-work methods. Elsewhere I have 
written about work among the fallen, and have 
been right lustily roasted and broiled ” on the spit 
of criticism. I am inclined to believe that most of 
the letters which reached me were inspired by a 
misunderstanding of my position in the matter. 

194 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 195 

When the day comes that you can step up to me 
and say: “ I can prove that you have lied when you 
wrote this,” and do prove it, I shall break my pen 
into atoms, shall be willing to have my lying hand 
hewn from its wrist, and shall do your bidding in 
my atonement 

I am not yet so long removed from the days of 
my iniquity that I have lost the right to call myself 
an honorary member of that Great and Unfortunate 
Order of the Wicked, and I, as their representative, 
will present our side of the case, that you may either 
prove us wrong, or else help us to that which we 
desire. 

Put yourself in the place of one who knows 
naught of religion. He knows that there is such 
a thing as religion, because he sees churches and 
has heard of clergymen; but he knows no more 
about their nature and work than that they are for 
betterment, and esteemed by more righteous people 
than himself. 

The time comes when that fateful whisper also 
reaches his ear, and he hears ‘‘ Come, come unto 
Me.” 

He heeds the message, and, feeling that he would 
not fit into the picture as presented in the church 
edifice, he seeks the humbler proxy, the rescue mis¬ 
sion, to make it the scene of his compact with the 
Master. 

Of course the routine of the service will not halt 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


196 

for him, and, until the time comes when he can 
kneel and send his plea up to the throne, he listens 
to the words and songs. The discourse surprises 
him. It so happens that the speaker is a so-called 
undenominational radical, one who cannot speak 
without disparaging regular churches and clergy¬ 
men. He criticises the tone and text of sermons; 
the church methods; their supposed aloofness; yes, 
even their coldness toward the unfortunate sinner. 
He speaks as if an inimical spirit existed between 
church and rescue mission work. 

Some time ago I heard a man say this from the 
platform: “Thank God for these missions! [Amen 
to that!] Tm a Christian, and will stay one if all 
the churches vanish and only these rescue mis¬ 
sions are left. I do not go to church on Sunday; 
I come to a mission where I can hear the Word 
plainly and simply, and not as they preach it in the 
pulpits.” 

I ask you in all fairness, is that the sort of talk 
to give to men and women who only know of the 
existence of religion by the steeples of its temples? 
Is it then a hindrance to one’s salvation to have the 
message presented with the sweetness of a Henry 
Ward Beecher, or in the heart-burning words of a 
DeWitt Talmage? 

Here is a duty to be performed by leaders and 
superintendents of missions: Be censors of what 
shall be said from your platforms. You are pledged 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 197 

to bring your sinners nearer to Him, right to His 
very feet, and should not permit to have them puz¬ 
zled and thrown into doubt by well-intended, per¬ 
haps well-founded, discussions of existing condi¬ 
tions. 

Would you consider it a convalescing remedy to 
picture the horrors of delirium tremens to the 
drunkard just released from the alcoholic ward in 
Bellevue? Would you not rather strengthen his 
unnerved mind and will by cheerful geniality and 
caring kindness? The man was sick, a victim of 
the most dreadful of diseases. 

Why then should you throw the doubting and 
disbelieving sinner, right at the very threshold, into 
a sea of doubt and partisanship? Tell him rather 
the truth, which is, that, were it not for the 
churches, and the clergymen and congregations 
worshipping in them, we would have fewer mis¬ 
sions, and they would be more hampered in their 
work. 

Let us concede, for the sake of argument, that 
the churches are not sufficiently aggressive in rescue 
work. Is there not a parallel to be found in col¬ 
lege and university settlement work? The Alma 
Mater is not directly active, but is responsible for 
the impulse, the doctrine, the theory, which finds an 
outlet in most practical and intelligent work. Is 
not that what the church does, and perhaps in a 
larger, broader, more embracing way? Is not the 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


198 

church the stimulus which creates in us a love for 
our fellow-men, and the desire to help those less 
blessed than ourselves? And as to the clergymen, 
why, one has only to spend a day with a city pastor 
to learn what a busy life his is. Why sneer at the 
pastors of our fashionable churches? Would you 
wish the ‘‘ fashionables ’’ to be without spiritual 
guidance, or do you not think, with a spreading 
public opinion, that they need the prop of religion 
more than the less fashionable? I am not rich, 
but I think that riches honestly earned may be the 
means of saving many from breaking hearts, and 
averting bitter regrets and bitterer repentance. 

That many missions owe their very existence and 
support to a maternal church seems to be only too 
often forgotten. I have sat on the benches facing 
the platform^ and I know that we, the unsaved, 
were not especially edified by hearing slighting allu¬ 
sions to churches and ministers. 

The most interesting service ever witnessed by 
me in a rescue mission was one I attended at my 
very start in the sunny life. The speaker’s earnest¬ 
ness was evident, and was enhanced by his thor¬ 
ough knowledge of the Bible. He was as sure of 
his Biblical personages and data as the professor of 
history is sure of his kings and legendary battles. 
There was a convincing definiteness in his discourse 
which made us all sit up and listen, until we forgot 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 199 

that we were listening with suddenly awakened 
faith, to events and miracles at which we had often 
laughed in our superior unbelief. Then came the 
lesson from it, and from that the deduction that the 
God of then was the God of to-day, ready to for¬ 
give and to receive the sinner of this moment, as He 
had been ready to forgive the blood-stained warrior 
of a score of centuries ago. It brought it to our 
callous, sneering, filthy hearts that we had listened 
to the Gospel of an all-forgiving love, and each man 
felt that on that mighty bosom a place for his 
weary head was waiting for him. 

Yes, that man could speak, and speak persuad- 
ingly. And that is what is needed on rescue plat¬ 
forms. But on how many can it be found? 

No one among us, who has cleft a place for 
himself or herself among the productive workers 
of the day, has done so without some self-training. 
The fireman who risks his life in saving yours must 
undergo the drill of weary months before consid¬ 
ered efficient for his duty. If you are in the work 
of saving men’s lives from a worse fate than flames, 
should you not train yourself also? 

Faith, yes, you must have that, and an abundance 
of it; but your results will be greater if you add 
efficacy to faith. And it can be had easily. 

A mission superintendent told me that his salary 
was very small and his work very trying. But no 
matter how small the salary, books are very cheap 


200 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


and make the work easier. At times, when I step 
down from the speaker’s place at churches or other 
assemblages, I feel ashamed of myself for having 
left so much unsaid and for having said the thing 
so feebly. Were I trained for speaking, these short¬ 
comings would be remedied or at least improved. 
If the manner of speaking were unimportant, semi¬ 
naries and training schools would not give it its 
important place in the currriculum. Text-books of 
rhetoric are very cheap, and you owe it to yourself 
to speak the Message to the fallen as intelligently 
as you can learn it to speak. Among the crowd 
before you sit many men, ragged and demoralised, 
but educated and intellectually equipped, and it lies 
with you to incite their respect, which will be fol¬ 
lowed by conviction. 

All this does not imply that we of the sinners’ 
benches expect a display of oratorical fireworks. 
We do not! We expect simplicity, the simpler the 
better, but we ought to have distinct utterance, a 
rational succession of facts and convincing perora¬ 
tion. There is a lot of shallow scepticism, bred in 
lodging-house rooms or gin-mills, in the cobwebbed 
minds before you, and their life has narrowed down 
to such a pessimistic level that nothing but facts 
will convince them. And in the giving of facts you 
should have no trouble, for have you not the blessed 
Chronicle of His works before you? 

The tenor of the testimony part lies with the 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 201 


leader of the meeting. As a whole, all testimonies 
are helpful, but converts intuitively will take their 
cue from the leader as to whether having the per¬ 
sonal note prevail or to submerge it, and sound His 
glorious harmony instead. The right kind of a 
testimony, rightly given, is of untold value. You 
can hear them in all meetings, and I never listen 
to one without shaking the convert’s hand and tell¬ 
ing him that I feel honoured to know a true man. 

A part of the service, managed with varying de¬ 
grees of effectiveness in the different missions, is 
the singing of the hymns. I do not speak of the 
special song services, but of the singing at the regu¬ 
lar meetings. 

Modern science has proven that music is a mighty 
agent in swaying our temperamental emotions. 
Why, then, do we not make a greater effort to have 
the Gospel songs put us into a receptive mood? ” 

Live but for a day the life of an outcast, ap¬ 
parently buffeted by men and fate alike, and you 
will understand the mellowness which a sweet mel¬ 
ody can bring to that quivering heart. 

Some time ago I sat in the midnight mission in 
Doyer Street. A wise leader, noticing the effect 
produced by his plain, straightforward talk, asked 
a lady to sing a solo, while he went among the men 
to make a canvass of their consciences for the sake 
of their souls. 

“Where is My Wandering Boy To-night?” was 


202 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


the lady’s choice, and it was sung with no more 
striving for artificial embellishment than she would 
have employed at her piano in her own home. But 
the strains of the simple melody floated through 
space, stopping just long enough at the heart of 
every man to knock at the door of his treasure vault 
of memories, and not a move, barely a breath, dis¬ 
turbed the singer for a long time, until—a draught 
may have caused it—a chorus of sniffing and sus¬ 
picious coughing made itself heard, while many 
noses were blown with a too emphatic fervour. 
Most heads hung low; but on the faces I could see 
that the traces of sin, lust, and degradation were, 
for the time, veiled by a reflection of the thoughts 
■within. Decades and scores of years were lived 
over again in those few minutes, and nearer to his 
God felt every being in that room. 

Oh, I can stand this no longer I ” 

The wail came from a youth, who rose from 
among his fellows and staggered to the door. He 
did not get beyond it. I need not tell you the story 
he told me. A variation of that discordant theme, 
moaned and groaned by the many along the high¬ 
way of the wicked. He is home now; the splendid 
son of a splendid mother and a worker among the 
weeds. Had it not been for that song we would 
have never met, which I would have regretted, for 
he is a good man, who had turned the wrong corner 
and had landed in a dirty alley. 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 203 

All this is an old story. That blessed old tune 
is responsible for having steered many wandering 
boys home again, and it is a good proof of my 
assertion that our hymns could be greater factors 
in the work. If the great multitude can memorise 
the ever-increasing “ popular songs of the day,” and 
their inane rhymes, with marvellous exactitude, 
why can we not do better with our beautiful 
hymns ? 

I do not claim to be a critic of poetic effusions, 
but the words of most of our hymns are very full 
of meaning in their unpretentious metres, to my 
humble mind. 

“Tell me the old, old story, 

Of unseen things above, 

Of Jesus and his glory, 

Of Jesus and his love. 

Tell me the story simply. 

As to a little child. 

For I am weak and weary. 

And helpless and defiled.” 

Yes, we all can sing it, but, just for a test, how 
many of us can recite it ? And is it not worth mem¬ 
orising? Sing that hymn, reading every word of 
it, and it will come fuller from your throat. 

I do not wish to force my taste and judgment 
upon you, but I would like to submit to you whether 
a hymn with the words of the following should not 
be sung as if we meant it: 


204 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ Brightly beams our Father’s mercy 
From his lighthouse evermore, 

But to us He gives the keeping 
Of the lights along the shore. 

Let the lower lights be burning, 

Send a gleam across the wave; 

Some poor fainting, struggling seaman 
You may rescue, you may save.” 

As I see it, there is divinely inspired poetry in 
that verse. Is it not true, that imagery of the 
writer? Is not “ this lighthouse brightly beaming,” 
and have we not the “ keeping of the lights along 
the shore ” ? 

Take any hymn-book, glance through it, and you 
will be surprised at the nobleness and purity of the 
verses. Is it, then, just to the men and women who 
have put their best inspirations into rhyme, to sing 
their words without a true appreciation of their 
meaning? Perhaps I am wrong in assuming all 
this, and to convince myself, I shall ask the very 
next professing Christian I meet to recite the Dox- 
ology to me. Let me suggest to you to do likewise, 
and you may find a few surprises awaiting you. 

So, taking the merit of the hymns as an accepted 
fact, you should not undervalue their effect on a 
crowd of sinners. I know that the song part of the 
services is the real magnet for many of the men. 
Their lives are stripped bare of everything refining 
and beautiful, and we all know that in every heart 
a little corner is reserved for the beautiful things 


FROM THE SINNERS’ BENCHES 205 

of life. Some like pictures, or stately buildings, 
or flowers, or even beautiful animals, and a great 
majority likes music. 

I have sat among crowds of weary, disheartened 
men, but with the intonation of that grand battle 
hymn, “ Onward, Christian Soldiers,” there came a 
straightening of backbones and a braver flicker into 
bleary eyes. 

Let me ask you, in the name of my brethren of 
the highway of the foolish and wicked, to sing your 
hymns as you have never sung them before, and to 
make every word in them tell. You will do both, 
give pleasure and prepare the soil. 

Looking back at my whence,” I can understand 
the hardness of the work among the unfortunates. 
It is disheartening labour to drill through the ac¬ 
cumulated layers of callousness, so disheartening 
that the callousness sometimes, although rarely, be¬ 
comes infectious. But look at the reward! Not 
only the one above, but the one right here! To see 
a smile creep over a wan little face at your gift of 
something bright, to note your words finding a 
grasp in some besodden mind, to lead the hymn 
with a responsive enthusiasm, ah, it is great reward. 
And it all can be made the means to 


Tell them of Jesus, the mighty to save.’ 


XIII 


THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 

(An Incident from the Bowery Mission.) 

(Author’s Note.—It is generally believed that the principal 
character of the following experience was the original of the 
once so famous popular song, “The Volunteer Organist.”) 

I T is a far cry from Silesia to the Bowery. Also 
while there are many miles between those two 
points, one has to travel hard, very hard and 
fast, to land on the Bowery, as Victor H. Benke did. 

There are many who do and always will remem¬ 
ber Benke’s arrival on the Bowery, and his first 
appearance in the Bowery Mission. 

One of the staunchest friends of the mission is 
Mrs. Sarah I. Bird, whom I have often called the 
‘‘ Mother of the Derelicts.’^ Over a score of years 
has been spent by this unassuming, lovely woman 
in philanthropic work of the most efficient sort. 
Having an abundance of means, Mrs. Bird was not 
only a liberal contributor to charitable work, but 
brought her personal effort to help. She had been 
a subscriber and worker in settlement work until 
the earnest work done by the Bowery Mission at¬ 
tracted her attention and determined her to become 


206 


THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 207 

an active helper there. To save the derelicts of 
the Bowery from a fate which always invariably 
leads to destruction is not a very alluring or easy 
task—^and that is just one of the reasons why Mrs. 
Bird decided to take it up. Where the need is 
greatest there we must work the hardest. 

It was easily recognised by Mrs. Bird that per¬ 
sonal contact with the men to be helped was essen¬ 
tial. A plan which she conceived, and which was 
gladly indorsed by the superintendent of the mis¬ 
sion, resulted in establishing her at the Bowery 
Mission as hostess every Sunday morning. The 
friendless and homeless men showed their appre¬ 
ciation by overwhelming attendance, and the occa¬ 
sions became quickly known as “ Mother Bird’s 
mornings.” 

The inauguration of these Sunday mornings 
showed Mrs. Bird as understanding the position 
of the homeless men thoroughly. There is no more 
dreary and abject day for the friendless man than 
Sunday. During the week the city, full of life and 
frenzied activity, holds out the possibility of some 
lucky chance. At any rate food—via the free 
lunch-counter or some charitable source—can be 
obtained. But all these possibilities are not exist¬ 
ing on Sundays. And so as Sunday is surely the 
day when one’s thoughts should get away from 
earthly things and soar on upwards, Mrs. Bird de¬ 
termined to make attendance at the services at the 


208 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Bowery Mission easy for her unfortunate friends 
by providing an early lunch for them. LFntil re¬ 
cently I was a resident of that part of the city, and 
I have seen with my own eyes the crowds of poor 
fellows gather around the mission door hours be¬ 
fore their admittance. And say all you want about 
pauperising, when a man will walk miles to be in 
time for his cup of coffee and sandwich, he—well, 
he needs the sandwich and ought to have it. But 
the best feature of Mother Bird’s mornings is that 
the men cannot run in and out after partaking of 
the food. The sandwiches themselves are sand¬ 
wiched between word of gospel and hymn of praise, 
and there is enough evidence to show that the seed 
scattered in this way has borne fruit unexpectedly 
and lavishly. One of these instances of corrobo¬ 
rating evidence was the case of Victor H. Benke. 

Along the Bowery on one Sunday morning came 
a derelict, if there ever was one. That he was 
homeless, penniless, and friendless goes without 
saying. The rest of his description must be omitted, 
as it would not appear well in print, and would 
be of no practical value. We all have seen men 
like him, and have shuddered at their dilapidation 
and degradation. 

There is a freemasonry among the wrecks, and 
current gossip had informed Benke that hot coffee 
and sandwiches could be had without asking and 
by just sitting through a short service every Sun- 


THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 209 


day morning at the Bowery Mission. At eight 
o’clock this Sunday morning, in company with 
many hundreds on like errand, Benke squeezed him¬ 
self into the mission, never dreaming that the turn¬ 
ing-point of his downward career had arrived. 
And, mind you, it was not the realisation of his 
wickedness, but just his empty, hungry stomach, 
which led him to the good old Church of Sinners. 

Until eleven years ago the musical part of the 
services at the mission left much to be desired. It 
seemed impossible to obtain the regular services 
of a pianist, and the seat at the piano was generally 
taken by some obliging friend of the work. It was 
somewhat of a drawback, as the workers of the 
mission wanted to make things as attractive as 
possible, and Mrs. Bird especially felt this keenly, 
as she wanted to make her Sunday mornings par¬ 
ticularly cheerful and yet inspiring. And being 
one who has long studied the temperamental and 
sometimes disarranged mental make-up of the men 
who come to the Bowery Mission and other places 
of like sort, I am in a position to assure you that 
quite frequently the e’er-remembered strain of some 
old, sweet melody, fraught with the memories of a 
clean, white past, will far outreach a dried-and-cut 
sermon in effectiveness. Ninety per cent, of the 
men are emotional creatures, largely the victims of 
their emotions, and it takes an inspired, emotional 
moment to bring them back again. 


210 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


On this Sunday morning when Benke made his 
first appearance at the mission Mrs. Bird was deeply 
chagrined on finding that the friend who had prom¬ 
ised to help at the piano was at the last moment 
unable to come. Knowing that this would be a 
sore disappointment to the men, Mrs. Bird made 
no official announcement of the pianist's non- 
appearance, hoping that somebody else might show 
up, or trusting that the singing alone would prove 
a satisfying substitute. As soon as it was time for 
the first musical number of the service the singing 
was started without a leader. It was weird. I do 
not know if it has ever been your privilege to listen 
to one of these impromptu choruses intoned by a 
few hundred of husky Bowery lads, but I have sat 
within the sound of such occurrence, and while I 
shall never forget it, I am not at all anxious to 
repeat the experience. These things are much 
better imagined than described. Even the most 
realistic writer will balk at describing certain 
events. 

The five hundred men who sat before Mrs. Bird 
thought this their opportunity to show their loyalty 
and affection. Of course they could get along for 
one Sunday without a leader. 

Just listen to this! 

Mrs. Bird listened. She couldn't help it. The 
volume of—of—tone that struck her ears also 
deafened her. It has not yet been proven that they 


THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 211 


all sang the same hymn. I have been told that the 
men thought this a splendid occasion to render their 
favourite hymns—individually. There seems to be 
no doubt about the “ rendering/’ but the ensemble 
effect was somewhat spoiled by the mosaic of selec¬ 
tion. A chorus of five hundred singing “Nearer, 
my God, to Thee,” “ Throw Out the Life Line,” 
“Where is My Wandering Boy To-night?” and 
others of equal degree of popularity, all singing at 
the same time and ad libitum, might be startling, 
but it is scarcely harmonious. 

There was a limit to Mrs. Bird’s endurance— 
and nerves. Eventually she succeeded in quieting 
the groaning sea of sound and told them frankly 
of their difficulty. 

“ I am very sorry about this disappointment. The 
friend who promised to officiate at the piano and 
lead the singing was detained at the very last 
moment. We usually sing so well, and are so 
used to accompaniment, that I am not surprised at 
our being all at sea to-day.” 

Had Mrs. Bird stopped right there the Bowery 
Mission would not have had one of its most inspir¬ 
ing incidents, and poor Benke would, most likely, 
have slid all the way down the path of destruction. 
But, moved by the spirit of custom, Mrs. Bird made 
the usual ending of such explanation, and set the 
wheels of Providence awhirling. 

“ Of course,” she continued, “ if there were any- 


212 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


one present to play for tis it would help us greatly, 
but as there isn’t-” 

A commotion on the last bench interrupted the 
speaker. She waited patiently, thinking the dis¬ 
turbance would be only temporary, but the inter¬ 
rupter was persistent and would not be subdued. 

At last he could be heard. 

“I’ll play! I’ll play for you!” 

Down the aisle he came shuffling, showing to the 
entire congregation how fearfully he had been “ up 
against it.” 

Ushers and others tried to bar him, but a pe¬ 
culiar light shone in his eyes and he waved them 
aside, keeping on to the platform. 

Facing Mrs. Bird he again repeated his assertion. 

“ I can play! I’ll play for you! ” 

There are times in rescue work when diplomacy 
has to be coupled with religious spirit. Such a time 
was confronting Mrs. Bird. The question came to 
her if it would not turn an intendedly devotional 
service into a farcical performance by permitting 
this wreck to disport himself at the piano to the 
delight of his friends in the assemblage. Besides, 
there was no assurance that the man was sober, or 
that his musical genius was not the fabric of his 
intoxication. 

“ It is very good of you to offer your services, 
but I think we can get along without the piano this 
morning, and I really believe the instrument is 



THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 213 

locked, the last player having taken the key 
and-’’ 

“ The key is in the lock,” remarked the stranger, 
and without further ado proceeded to open the 
instrument. 

Further parley was out of the question, and 
hoping for the best, yet fearing the worst, Mrs. 
Bird abandoned further diplomacy. 

There was something in the man^s movements 
which was reassuring. Such small details as the 
lifting of the cover, the adjustment of the stool, 
showed that he was not unfamiliar with the task 
before him. Seated before the instrument—it had 
served many years—the man remained in quiet for 
about a minute. Then, as if out of his muddled 
brain a message had come to him, the fingers sought 
the keys with sure touch. 

As soon as he began Mrs. Bird thought there 
was something uncanny about it all. How could 
such melody come from that old piano, out of 
which the usual players could coax only the barest 
accompaniment. 

But Benke played on, forgetting, perhaps, his 
surroundings and dreaming of the pure, clean days 
of yore. First, softly, like the whispered greeting 
of two old friends, the prelude cooed and sang in 
highest treble. Then came the purpose of the har¬ 
mony, to make men more plastic for the waiting 
message, and trembling, determined, full and sweet 



214 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


the chords rolled on and on until the arched ceil¬ 
ing itself \'ibrated in response. The old instrument 
knew its master and answered willingly to eveiy 
demand- They were in communion. And into 
every comer, every cre^dce of the spacious hall sank 
melody divine, the tone confession of the regener¬ 
ated player. 

The hundreds sat as if enchanted. Xo one can 
tell you what \\'as played or how long the music 
lasted on that morning. The}* only know that for 
a period all too brief they were lifted out of them¬ 
selves, away from their misery, their filth, their 
degradation by this playing of one of their own 
kind, a wreck from the streets. 

At last the harmony died away, the stranger 
arose, and, as in the song later built about this inci¬ 
dent. tried to make his way back to his seat, the 
last bench in the hall, the seat of the most miserably 
lest. But his return was more difficult than his 
previous advance. Hands were stretched out to 
him from all sides, and he was led back again to 
the platform and the piano. 

There was no further dissatisfaction with the 
musical part of the ser\-ice that morning. At the 
end of the meeting !Mrs. Bird engaged Benke's serv¬ 
ices for the mission on the spot, and he worked 
faithfully until his death, about a year ago. 

It would not surprise me to find some who—and 
apparently justifiably so—^would judge that the 


THE VOLUXTEER ORGANIST 215 

peculiar discovery of Benke and the emotional 
conditions accompanying’ it were resultant in an 
overrating of his standing as a musician. How- 
ever, an abundance of proof is at hand to disprove 
this. 

Benke’s advent at the Bowery Mission, and the 
story of his conversion, drew many to the place 
from curiosity. Eventually some musicians of 
established reputation heard him play, and the last 
doubt anent his genius was removed. A further 
indorsement was the splendid gift which arrived 
one day at the Bower>" Mission. 

A friend of the mission and one of its chiefest 
supporters heard Benke at the piano, and was so 
impressed by his playing that he resolved to provide 
him with a fitting instrument. Inquiries brought 
the news that the beautiful organ of the Marquand 
Chapel in Princeton was for sale, and it was pur¬ 
chased for sixteen thousand dollars. The purchase 
and gift were made so quietly that only very few 
persons know that Dr. Louis Klopsch was the donor 
of this magnificent present. 

A further corroboration of Benke's ability was 
the fact that shortly after his appearance at the 
Bowery Mission he was asked to assist at the mam¬ 
moth re\'ival meetings held by Moody and Sankey at 
Cooper LTnion. Immediately after his debut there 
he was requested to take full charge of the musical 
part of the services. It proved a providential ex- 


2i6 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


perience for Berike. During the meetings he be¬ 
came acquainted with the famous hymn writers, 
an experience which stood him in good stead 
later on. 

With the establishment of Benke at the Bowery 
Mission the services became doubly attractive. Mr. 
J. G. Hallimond, the superintendent of the mission, 
believes, with many other liberal-minded men en¬ 
gaged in the work, that music, good music, has a 
place in rescue efforts. If nothing else, music will 
at least help the unfortunate men to spend a few 
hours in decent, wholesome environment. With 
the cooperation of Benke Thursday concerts were 
installed at the mission, and it is only necessary to 
look at the names of some of the artists who vol¬ 
unteered at these evenings to judge the quality of 
the entertainments offered. Among them were 
Gwilym Miles, Hans Kronold, Theodore Bjork- 
sten, Mrs. Rollie Borden Low, and others of equal 
prominence. 

To develop the home talent Benke organised the 
Bowery Mission quartette, and it was not long 
before they were asked to sing at many churches 
and meetings. I have been on the same platform 
with the quartette, and it has always been a source 
of pleasure to me to have these melodious and yet 
militant soldiers back of me as sort of moral 
support. 

The quiet, well-groomed man whom I had the 


THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 217 

pleasure of meeting shortly before his death had 
rather striking views on the emigrant question. 

“ It is surprising that even at this late date the 
people of the smaller towns in Germany are so 
ignorant regarding conditions here,” he said in a 
reminiscent mood. “You will hardly credit it, 
but there are people at home who firmly and liter¬ 
ally believe that this is the land of milk and honey. 
Take me, for instance. Although not of the igno¬ 
rant class, I shared this impression, and when I 
arrived here started in to spend my small patrimony 
without compunction. I had no care. Was not 
this the land of promise, of prosperity, America? 
Alas, it did not take me long to ascertain that as 
a press agent the emigration solicitor stands su¬ 
preme. One morning I found myself flat broke, and 
realised that here, as elsewhere, a man must chiefly 
depend on his own efforts.” 

“And then came experiences, I suppose?” I 
questioned. 

“ Experiences ? Why, yes, I suppose you might 
call them that. These experiences helped to em¬ 
bitter me and made me take that oblique view of 
life which starts so many on the downward course. 
Once you begin to rile and rebel against all existing 
conditions and religion, the devil will greet you 
as an old friend. Perhaps one of my most dis- 
agreeble experiences happened on board of an 
oyster boat along the Maryland coast. The wages 


2i8 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


were ten dollars a month. I was on board two 
months, and was not permitted to leave the boat 
during that time. Still, at the end of that period, 
I was informed by the skipper that I owed him 
forty-two cents. If people knew more of the cruelty 
and suffering on those oyster boats public demand 
would effect a change.’^ 

But from where and from whom do you get 
your talent ? ” I asked again. 

‘‘ I can hardly say that I inherited it, because 
I came from a most unmusical family. My father 
was an architect in Ratibor in Silesia, and intended 
me for the Government service. But a musical 
wave engulfed my brother and myself, and we de¬ 
termined to become musicians. My brother Ernest 
has been the violoncellist of the orchestras of Sir 
Charles Halle and Sir Augustus Manns in London. 
While serving my time in the German army I made 
up my mind to follow in my brother’s steps, but 
thought America offered a better field. I came 
here, and it was not long before disappointment 
and absence of home influences started me on that 
slide which landed me in the Bowery Mission on 
that eventful Sunday morning. Since then I have 
been happy and anxious to do my share in this 
work of reclaiming the fallen.” 

Were additional proof of Benke’s qualifications 
necessary, the fact that he has over four hundred 
hymns to his credit should surely bring it. Among 


THE VOLUNTEER ORGANIST 219 

his collaborators were Fanny Crosby the blind poet, 
Charlotte Elliott, Eben E. Redford, and others. 

I asked him for his favourite hymn of his own 
composition. 

“ My favourite hymn will scarcely be considered 
a classic, but for personal reasons I like it best. 
The words were written by W. H. Horner, and the 
words of it, their application, make me like the 
hymn: 

“ ‘ Jesus redeemed and made me whole, 

I can forget Him never; 

Out of the depths He brought my soul; 

Now I am His forever. 

Fm holding on, Fm holding on; 

Daily in grace I’m growing; 

Fast to the Rock Fm holding on, 

Peace to my heart is flowing.”^ 

Benke is gone, but his death must have been 
peaceful, crowned with the satisfaction of having 
helped his lesser brethren. There is room for 
prayer, preaching, and feeding in rescue work, but 
there is also room and need for music. And he 
who can bring the dim moisture to bleary eyes with 
the inspired harmony of his music makes these 
shrunken hearts and besotted minds more respon¬ 
sive to the call, and is doing work of the right sort 
in the service of his Maker. 

Benke did this work, did it well and faithfully, 
and may you now sleep well until The Day, you 
good- servant of men and God. 


XIV 


THE MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 

H eliotrope, carnation pink, new-mown 
hay, and other fragrances, telling of lux¬ 
ury, ease, and worldliness, have many 
admirers, but the homelier smell, the fragrance of 
soapsuds, also has its partisans, and if you, as I, 
are one of them, let us tell others the story of the 
Madonna of the Washtub. 

Once in a while a poet, whose soul, tired from 
soaring in Parnassian heights, gets closer to the 
ground will sing an epic of the lowly, humbler folk 
that finds an echo in the hearts of millions. But 
far too little has been sung and rhymed about the 
lady of the shawl and apron—our mother of the 
tenement. And these, our mothers, strive their 
way along, the monotone of it alone a sacrifice, 
without a murmur or a sound of grumbling, with 
no reward but that of work well done. 

I shall never cease refuting those superficial men 
and women who picture to you my own people, the 
lesser and the humble, as growling, grumbling mal¬ 
contents. Were they that, I, for one, would not 
always be ready to fight for them with word of 


220 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 221 


mouth or pen. One cannot fight an honest battle 
unless the cause is good. 

Poverty often breeds greedy selfishness, but it 
also brings out the very best that is in human 
nature, and never seems more golden than when 
gilded by the quiet, daily sacrifices of those first 
ladies of the land—the mothers of the tenements. 

Ah, well do I know them! 

When a lad of the streets I loved them; when 
a youth they were my sweethearts. But they would 
not wait for me and went and got married; and 
even now, although they treated me so shamefully, 
I still love them, and more, respect them. 

To meet them you need not make a special ap^ 
pointment. Their days are all alike, and they are 
never away from home. Scores of them do not get 
beyond the boundaries of two or three blocks from 
their homes in years, and know as little about 
the “ uptown world as they know of the life 
therein. 

So if you would like to meet her, you may ac¬ 
company me to call on Mrs. Mac. 

Arrived at her door, we hear the peculiar 
‘‘ tschuck, tschuck ” produced by the piano of the 
tenement—the washboard—while Mrs. Mac herself 
hums lustily: 


‘‘Now, Mrs. MacFarlane she weighed forty-four; 

If she’d weighed forty-five, then she’d weighed a pound more.’ 


222 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


She does not hear us entering, and changes to 
her old favourite, “ Young Paddy’s Colleen.” 

“ ‘ Muah-ha-ha-hah! ’ 

Said the Colleen to Paddy. 

‘ Muah-ha-ha-hah! ’ 

Then said Paddy to- 

“ I declare if it ain’t—the top o’ the morning’ to 
ye! ” She has seen us at last, and what Paddy said 
to the Colleen does not become known. 

“ Now you sit right down here, and I’ll have a 
cup o’ tay for you in a twinkling.” There is no 
declining her hospitality, and while she brews the 
cheering cup, etiquette demands that you inquire: 
“ And how are the children ? ” 

“Ah, they’re well, thank you kindly; and Jim¬ 
mie’s growing. Oh, my, but ain’t he that! And 
I say ”—Mrs. Mac looks about for eavesdroppers, 
not for fear of them, but from habit—“ my Mag¬ 
gie is keeping company with—ah, I’m sure you’ll 
never guess ? ” 

“Not with Tim Malone, the truck driver?” 

“Tim Malone, indeed! No, my Maggie is too 
good for the loikes o’ him. It’s Frank Noonan, 
that’s my Maggie’s fellow.” 

“ Not Frank Noonan^ the leader’s son? ” 

“ The very self-same, and I’ll have you know my 
Maggie is fit for the very best o’ them.” 

That, of course, cannot be denied, and while Mrs. 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 223 


Mac—her name is McCarthy, but all who love her, 
which means all who know her, call her Mrs. Mac 
—is busy with the ‘Hay,” we look at her hum¬ 
ble home. 

The three rooms are permeated by the smell 
of soapsuds, coming from the tub standing beneath 
the one window in the front room, which was all¬ 
kitchen, living, and dining-room, and even bed¬ 
room for Jimmie, the “ young one.” The two bed¬ 
rooms—the parental chamber and Maggie’s boudoir 
—are dark, depending for their sole ventilation on 
the narrow slit in the masonry, called ironically 
“ air shaft.” But from the bed-clothes to the floor 
a scrupulous cleanliness prevails. 

(Why are we always so ready to believe that 
poverty loves dirt?) 

Facing the door from the hall is the cooking 
range, which also heats the apartment. In the 
corner to the right is the cupboard, which, on its 
gaily papered and fringed shelves, holds all the 
household utensils and crockery of the family. In 
the corner to the left is the “ old man’s ” rocker, 
the “ bewraw,” and a small table, on which is a 
stack of coloured newspaper supplements. Between 
the range and the lounge—Jimmie’s couch—is the 
table, surrounded by four chairs, on which the 
meals are set, the son’s lessons ground out, and 
the women’s sewing done. 

True, it is all cheap, tawdry from the green and 


224 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


red paper on the shelves to the “ fashion plates '' 
cut from different publications and gummed to the 
wall by Maggie, the “ darter,” but through it all 
there is the visible desire to give cheer .and comfort 
to her family. The mother has to be all in all— 
housekeeper, friend, adviser, consoler, judge, exe¬ 
cutioner, tailor, dressmaker, chaperone, teacher, 
and everything else. 

Tenement-house existences have occasional vari¬ 
ances, but unfortunately they are seldom of an 
agreeable nature. There are the deaths and the 
greedily expensive funerals, with their obligatory 
pomp; the only times when the poor ride in state 
—even if on credit to the undertaker. Illness, with 
the calls of the doctor, brings also a break in the 
monotony and gives the family temporary promi¬ 
nence in the neighbourhood; but it is an expensive 
luxury. Then there are the dispossessions, and is 
there a street with a stone in its pavement on 
which, not once upon a time, the dingy lares and 
penates of a huddled family group cried their own 
tale to heaven ? Also—and this is the most wonder¬ 
ful of all—times come, when the daughter, but 
lately grown up from a child, dazed and turned by 
the cheap flatteries of loaferish dandies at the balls 
and picnics, is missing from the humble place which 
was a home to her and hers so long. Neither lastly 
nor leastly are the “ celebrations ” of the men— 
usually on their pay-days, when money, neither 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 225 

morally nor ethically all their own, is spent in ca¬ 
rousing and paid for by deprivation. And in all 
these instances it is the mother, ever patient, ever 
tried, who has to bear the brunt of it, and straighten 
matters with kind words or righteous anger. 

Mrs. McCarthy has had her share of it all, so, 
while at the washtub, or hanging the clothes on the 
line, or at her cooking fire, her thoughts run in 
narrow compass to the past and the little incidents 
in the life of the block. As to her aspirations, they 
are not of the high-flown order. To see that the 
‘‘ old man ’’ and the children have their meals and 
beds and clean clothes are the ambitions of the 
mother. To hope that Maggie will marry a man 
who can give her a home at least as good as her 
own, and that Jimmie will grow up a smart young 
fellow, who can make a living more by his mental 
than his manual labour, are her natural desires. 
There is no future for her and the “ old man,’’ 
excepting a continuation of the present. She knows 
it can be nothing else, unless the health of herself 
or the ‘‘ old man ” should fail before Jimmie and 
the girl are provided, and then—^but Mrs. Mc¬ 
Carthy is too cheerful to let such thoughts stay with 
her long. 

Mrs. Mac’s alarm clock is the milkman, who 
comes, with his unearthly noise of tin cans and yells, 
at the break of day. 

James McCarthy, Sr., the “ old man,” is a driver, 


226 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


and has to be at the stable every morning at seven 
o’clock to feed and clean his horses and harness. 
It takes him more than half an hour to get to the 
stable from his home. This entails an early break¬ 
fast, and we find Mrs. McCarthy rising at five 
o’clock, to start the fire, cook the breakfast, and 
superintend the departure of her husband. 

Maggie has reached the “ young lady ” age, 
which permits a certain independence; and still un¬ 
der the influence of her pleasant dreams, she eats 
her breakfast in haughty silence—and a few min¬ 
utes, giving more time to her toilet of hair coiffure 
and ribbon finery. It should not be supposed that 
the mother is permitted to remain idle during this 
period and watch her daughter’s proceedings with 
reverent wonder. She is constantly asked to fas¬ 
ten buttons and hooks, or to tie a bow here and 
there. 

Then, when it is seemingly finished, a final in¬ 
spection generally ends with: “ Say, ma, ain’t the 
pink ribbon a little too loud on this sea-green 
waist? ” 

And ma ” has to weigh the matter with intense 
seriousness before pronouncing her ultimatum. 

The parting kiss is never forgotten, and before 
Maggie has descended the three flights of stairs 
to the street, the mother—summer or winter, rain 
or shine—leans from the window to get a last 
glimpse of her daughter before she mingles with 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 227 

the crowd of workers hastening to their daily toil. 
Shutting the window, “ ma ’’ looks toward the 
lounge, where her tousled and freckled boy is en¬ 
joying his last moments in slumberland. There is 
absolutely nothing angelic about the urchin; in fact, 
he is rather an ordinary kid; but to this plain 
woman, with her heart of gold, he is the only boy 
in all this world, the centre point of her emotions, 
also the objective point of her maternal spankings. 

Then it’s “Jimmie, boy, don’t you want no 
breakfast ? ” 

And Jimrriie? He rolls about lazily and growls, 
“ Oh, leave me alone, ma; leave me alone.” 

But the mother caresses and tickles, until the 
boy, in high dudgeon, jumps from his couch and 
runs for his shoes. 

In the meanwhile the mother heats the coffee and 
cuts more bread, and then puts that enormous tin 
affair, the washboiler, in commission. It’s Monday 
—and wash day. 

Jimmie, eyes only half open, is, nevertheless, suf¬ 
ficiently wide awake to the main chance, which 
means to “ beat washing his face.” But in vain 
is all his diplomacy. 

“ Now, Jimmie, take your basin like a good boy, 
and give your face a good washing—Heaven knows 
you need it.” 

The operation is not permitted to be performed 
out in the hall, “ in under the sink,” but must take 


228 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


place in the room, where “ ma ” watches with most 
unrelenting zeal that the neck and the ears are 
properly ‘‘ lathered and scrubbed.’^ 

At last this torture is ended, and Jimmie, with 
shining nose, glowing cheeks, and plastered hair, 
sits down to the table to eat his morning meal in 
company with his mother, who has deferred break¬ 
ing her fast until now. 

This meal is a very pleasant one to Mrs. Mc¬ 
Carthy, and yet a tinge of regret is ever present. 

And what will you be learning to-day, Jim¬ 
mie?” she will ask. 

“ Ah, language and joggraffy and all them 
things,” comes the answer, with the assurance of 
the scientist. 

Now, in joggraffy you learn all about the other 
countries, don’t you, Jimmie?” 

‘‘Sure! All about Germany, and France, and 
Africa—but I ain’t that far yet.” 

“ Now, tell me, Jimmie, has the teacher been tell¬ 
ing you anything about the auld country—^about 
Ireland? Has he now?” and a wistful note whis¬ 
pers in her question. 

“ Naw! There ain’t no such country, teacher 
says. They ain’t got no king nor nothing, and they 
belong to England,” answers Jimmie, without re¬ 
gard for his mother’s feeling, she seeing in her 
mind’s vision the picture of the long ago, when she 
sailed from the banks of the River Shannon, to 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 229 

come, a buxom lass, to these shores of the promised 
land. 

Short is the day dream, for the hour is getting 
late. Jimmie has to be bundled off to school, and 
there is much work to do. 

But Mrs. McCarthy is a woman for all that, 
and while she rolls her sleeves back over the plump 
arms, she stands in front of the looking-glass and 
looks at herself. It’s a pleasant reflection that 
greets her. The hair, the nose, and the eyes are 
unmistakably Irish; in other words, the hair is like 
gold when looked at in the shadow; the nose is am¬ 
bitious and striving upward, and the eyes—ah, the 
eyes, they are true and affectionate, and damp with 
a glorious dew. One more look does the plump lit¬ 
tle lady permit herself, and then it’s “ to work.” 

First, the bedding is pulled apart and shaken; 
then the floor is swept and dusted. This done, the 
dishes and cooking utensils are washed and dried, 
and after that the principal event of the day’s pro¬ 
gramme—the washing—is begun in the proper 
spirit of energy. And for hours and hours there is 
no sound in the room excepting the tschuck, 
tschuck ” which we heard on our entrance, and, 
perhaps, the snatch of a favourite song. 

Little occurs during the day to interrupt Mrs. 
Mac, not even luncheon. Only when one of the 
ladies of the neighbourhood calls is a somewhat 
ceremonial tea spread. At other times, a sip from 


230 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


her cup and a bite from a crust, taken while pass¬ 
ing the range or the table, is all the food consumed. 
And this in spite of the fact that not one minute of 
the day is permitted to go to waste. Even during 
visits of neighbours the work is not stopped. 

These visits are about the only recreation vouch¬ 
safed to these mothers of the tenements. Sure it 
is nothing but gossip, but we should not forget how 
very small their world is, bounded by an almost 
immediate horizon. Also, it is not all praiseworthy 
that is discussed at these visits, and many reputa¬ 
tions are dissected and sometimes condemned; but 
before condemning, let us remember the saying 
about people who live in glass houses. To offset 
the evil side of these chats, it must be stated that 
they are the only channels through which the calam¬ 
ities of the district become known, and I know of 
occasions where two or three women, after discuss¬ 
ing recent sicknesses or other ills which had befallen 
their neighbours, combined to alleviate the suffer¬ 
ing or misery they had talked about. It is a small, 
a very small, world in which they live, yet in it you 
will find, as elsewhere, many shortcomings and fail¬ 
ings, and, also, all noble sentiments made doubly 
worthy by their humble environment. 

After the washing has been “ hung out on the 
line,” Mrs. Mac has not much time left for the 
mending and patching of her family’s wearing ap¬ 
parel. Even if she is careless about her own eating. 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 231 

she cannot neglect the others, and with the arrival 
of the last of the family the supper is ready and 
placed on the table. 

It is the only time during the day that the entire 
family meets. However, great hilarity is not the 
order, as the meal is more of a labour than a pleas¬ 
ure, and is finished in a very short time. 

One of the sad things of tenement-house life is 
that the home circle is so little cultivated. There 
are several reasons for this, one being that mental 
activity is exceedingly limited. Another reason is 
that the quarters are generally so small that a com¬ 
fortable gathering around the hearth is well-nigh 
impossible. 

In the case of the McCarthys, Jimmie lacked suf¬ 
ficient room for his boyish pranks; the “ old man ” 
missed his important political controversies, and 
Maggie—well, Frank Noonan, her steady,” was 
waiting downstairs. And so we find Mrs. Mac, 
even before the last dish is removed from the 
table, again deserted and devoted to her work, 
while her charges are following the different 
promptings of their inclinations. But there is not a 
word of protest, for she is a mother of the tene¬ 
ments, and as such cannot expect to be an exception. 

The room once more set in order, Mrs. Mac 
reaches a very pleasant task in her routine. Fixing 
the fire and turning low the light, she leaves for the 
store to do her marketing. Every shop window on 


232 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


the way has been often scrutinised before, still she 
cannot resist the temptation of looking- at many of 
the things, in which, by having longed for them so 
long, she has an almost proprietary right. And 
then the pricing at the store is another pastime. 
True, the grocer does not carry very many delicacies 
—they would remain unsold on his shelves; but the 
few he has for decorative purposes are handled and 
bargained for as if the women really meant to buy 
them. 

Her modest purchases made, Mrs. Mac returns 
home, noting that her own daughter, Maggie, has 
an intensely interesting rendezvous with Frank 
Noonan at the door of the tenement. A wealth of 
faith has Mrs. Mac in her daughter; still she is only 
a simple young girl, and the maternal care is for¬ 
ever watching over her. 

Nodding kindly to the young man, who doffs his 
hat with a cheery “ Good-evening, Mrs. McCarthy,’' 
the old lady climbs the stairs to her top floor, rest¬ 
ing many times on the way, for indeed her limbs 
are tired. 

But now the schedule of the day is drawing to its 
close. This is indicated by getting the couch ready 
for Jimmie. He is the first victim to be sent to 
sleep, and is summoned in clarion tones by his 
mother from the window. And the stubby-nosed 
kid is undressed and tucked under his blankets with 
a care the very essence of tenderness. Soon he is 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 233 

asleep, and then the thoughts of Mrs. Mac turn 
to the “ old man ’’ and hopes for his early home¬ 
coming. 

She is not disappointed, for ere long the heavy 
tramp on the stairs tells his return, which is quickly 
followed by his going to bed. He, too, is made 
comfortable and easy, before the mother looks at 
the old clock—winding it at the same time—and 
thinks of the pair downstairs. All things must 
come to an end, and so the mother appoints herself 
love's rude awakener. 

She descends to the street, winds the apron 
around her arms, and stepping through the door¬ 
way, she cruelly interrupts the cooing pair. 

It’s a lovely evening, Frank Noonan,” she says, 
with natural diplomacy, and walks to the curb, look¬ 
ing at the sky and roofs of houses. 

Now, I am sure you know it—it is well-nigh 
impossible to talk love’s language in the presence 
of a third person, and Frank Noonan suddenly 
awakes to the fact that it is very late. His good¬ 
night to Maggie is soft and whispered. Then to 
the mother—“ Almost time to be in bed, Mrs. Mc¬ 
Carthy. I guess I’ll be going home.” 

‘‘Are you going, Frank? Well, good-night to 
you, boy, and may you have pleasant dreams.” 

“ Thank you, Mrs. McCarthy, and the same to 
you. Good-night to you both.” 

Mother and daughter ascend together in silence. 


234 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ Good-night, ma; ” the daughter retires, and 
again the mother is left alone. 

The finale has come! 

The fire receives the needed attention, Jimmie 
is once more covered with his blankets, and the lamp 
extinguished. Now the mother’s work is done. 

So, first to rise and last to retire, the mother of 
the tenement goes to her well-earned rest, from 
which she will waken to find the new-come day the 
twin of the one just past. 

That is the story of the mother of the tenement, 
and now after reading it you may feel a slight dis¬ 
appointment. It is simply a chronicle of toil, the 
toil which you know so well, and not a legend or 
romance of great and heroic deeds. 

You, if you are a woman, may have had days 
exceeding the day of the mother of the tenement in 
severe labour. Still, I know that after a moment’s 
reflection you will see the hardship of her lot. 

There are many staunch-hearted women in the 
farmhouses of our country who, year in and year 
out, know naught but work from the lark’s awaken¬ 
ing to the firmament’s greatest starry glory, and 
they at first glance might say, Do I not work 
harder than that mother of the tenement?” 

I know but little, too little, of the life of the farm 
and field, and it is not for me to decide that ques¬ 
tion. But I do know this one thing, that your re- 


MOTHER OF THE TENEMENTS 235 

ward, whether appreciated or not, is greater. Have 
you not God’s green about you, and the smell of the 
hay, the madrigals of feathered choirs, and, above 
all, the heaven-perfumed, dew-sprayed air of na¬ 
ture? Your life is not spent in the radius of a few 
feet of space—you have miles. And, if nothing else, 
you at least can always see before you the creation 
of the All One. 

Have you ever had a peep into the yards of the 
tenements? It seems as if covered by a network— 
the lines of washing day running from house to 
house. Follow these lines, and you will find women 
working and toiling who have lost all remembrance 
of flowers, to whom a leaf itself is as a mystery. 
You will see women, homely, yet loyal, bend to their 
task with dull and duller growing hearts, because 
the beauty of life is a thing they have not even 
heard of. 

While writing the preceding paragraphs I have 
had come to my mind the picture of the “ Man with 
the Hoe.” Do as I did and draw the parallel. If 
he, the man of coarser grain, stands level with the 
ox out there in nature’s realm, how is it with the 
woman of a texture in which each fibre longs for 
love, affection, and sympathy, who lives down here 
among my humble folk, and never can inhale the 
moist smell of the earth or faint odour of even the 
blade of grass? 

Make it a personal question. 


236 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


You in the country work, perhaps, one or two 
hours longer than the woman of the tenement, but 
would you exchange places with her? I hardly 
think so. 

And even were I wrong, you will believe in my 
faith and respect for the women of our land, and, 
because of that, you would think less of me were I 
not loyal to her, the only mother I have known— 
the mother of the tenements. 


XV 


THE CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 

T O centre all one’s ideas and actions in the 
singleness of one purpose often produces 
a mental condition resembling mono¬ 
mania. We have so many proofs of this theory 
that any additional instances would seem super¬ 
fluous. Still, I cannot refrain from telling you 
the following story, because it promised so little 
and ended so unexpectedly. Besides, it is true, 
and is still lived by its principal actors. 

No family among the humble folk in the Sixth 
Ward enjoyed greater popularity than the Strep- 
pers. It was a standing joke in the neighbourhood 
than, eventually, old man Strepper would be the 
father-in-law to most of the young men in the ward. 
No jest ever perpetrated had a greater chance of 
becoming a probability. The Streppers were blessed 
with a family of six children, and they were all 
girls. 

There were some who pitied old Strepper for be¬ 
ing provided with such an abundance of femininity, 
but he took it very philosophically. 

“ Ach, what’s the difference,” he would say. 
237 


238 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ They don’t eat half as much as the boys, and they 
get married soon, and then the husband has to buy 
them the dresses and all the other folderols.” 

The intervals in the ages of the girls were mar¬ 
vels of exactness, and between Lena, the oldest, and 
Lizzie, the youngest, was a difference of just six 
years. 

What to do with the girls and how to bring them 
up never seemed a difficult problem to Mrs. Strep- 
per. As soon as age permitted they had to get 
whatever ‘‘ schooling ” the public schools of the 
neighbourhood afforded. 

‘‘ Fellows, nowadays, don’t marry no girls that 
ain’t got no eddikation,” was the way Mrs. Strepper 
summed up the situation. 

During their spare hours from study the girls 
were trained in the mysteries of housekeeping, also 
a most important detail in the matrimonial virtues 
of a tenement-house girl. 

To graduate from these educational courses, only 
age, not efficiency, was required. When the limit 
of age fixed by the factory laws was reached the 
girls were apprenticed to some shop to learn a trade, 
and to contribute their mites to the defraying of 
the household expenses. 

Taking it all in all the Streppers were quite con¬ 
tend with their lot, and thought the future would 
develop as they had built it. The children grew 
up to be the most handsome girls in the ward, and 


^ CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 239 

when Lena reached her eighteenth year there was 
no dearth of suitors for her hand. Lena’s choice, 
fully sanctioned by her mother, was Cornelius 
Flanagan. 

This young fellow had started life under a handi¬ 
cap and had fallen a victim to it. Old Roderick 
Flanagan, his father, had come to this country from 
the North of Ireland, and was an Orangeman.” 
This in itself was enough to create a prejudice 
against him, in a locality in which all other natural¬ 
ised citizens were of opposite political and religious 
beliefs. 

To increase the feeling against him, Roderick 
Flanagan, by his inherited shrewdness and strong 
personality, succeeded in making himself a power¬ 
ful factor in the politics of the ward, and could 
be hated but not ignored. 

With the attaining of his majority came political 
aspirations and ambitions to the son, and Cornelius 
Flanagan, lacking the personal attributes of his sire, 
fell to the level of the ordinary ward youth, being 
like putty in the hands of the scheming statesmen, 
and foolishly building hopes on their delusive 
promises. 

Old Flanagan was not long in realising that his 
son would never be his political heir, and, after get¬ 
ting him into the Police Department, told him that 
he would have to shape his own career. The old 
man’s ensuing death made this a stern reality, and 


240 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Cornelius’ aspirations shrank to the hope of being 
able to retain his present job, which is described in 
the vernacular as “ pounding the pavement.” 

All this did not prevent Officer Flanagan from 
seeming a very desirable matrimonial catch to the 
mothers of the many marriageable tenement belles. 

Ach, he’s no worse than most o’ them, and be¬ 
sides, he’s got a steady job that he can’t lose with¬ 
out doing something terrible, and Cornelius ain’t 
going to do nothing like that,” said Mrs. Strepper, 
when her husband remonstrated with her on hear¬ 
ing her matrimonial plans for Lena. 

“ But, mother, whenever he’s off duty he’s stuck 
in Duffy’s, playing cards and hanging out in there; 
and you know what kind of a gang is round that 
corner.” 

Now, see here, father,” Mrs. Strepper replied, 
‘‘ if you expect Lena to marry an angel, she’ll be an 
old maid all her life. There ain’t no angels coming 
round this ward, and Cornelius Flanagan is as good 
a man as is to be found on the average. If he 
wouldn’t make a good husband, do you think all 
the women would be half crazy to get him away 
from my Lena and catch him for their own 
daughters? ” 

Strepper did not attempt to answer this, pre¬ 
ferring to depend on the wisdom of his better half. 
And she should not be too hastily judged. To pro¬ 
vide six girls in any social sphere with suitable 


CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 241 

husbands is no easy task; and in a neighbourhood 
in which the salaries of the young men were far 
below the amount earned by policemen no mother 
felt inclined to cheat her daughter out of a chance 
to marry one of these uniformed prizes. 

The courtship of Lena Strepper and Cornelius 
Flanagan had grown from very small beginnings. 
The home of the Streppers was on the beat of the 
young officer, and seeing the girl going to the 
near-by stores, and, later, to her daily work, their 
acquaintance had developed from merely nodding 
to each other to long and earnest conversations at 
the door of the tenement. 

Lena Strepper was a typical East Side girl. Her 
duties, including the work of the house and at the 
shop, as well as her church attendance, were per¬ 
formed with punctilious regularity, and even her 
social pleasures were enjoyed with great earnest¬ 
ness. Needless to say, the latter were of a very 
harmless nature, and never “ taken in,” unless ac¬ 
companied by Cornelius Flanagan, who would have 
often preferred amusements of a more boisterous 
kind. However, his love for Lena was as sincere 
as his love could be, and he suppressed his inclina¬ 
tions out of deference for her. 

Their courtship had reached the critical period 
when nothing excepting the naming of the date re¬ 
mained to be done, and their dream seemed very near 
realisation—to be cruelly dispelled by a most un- 


242 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


fortunate calamity. Mrs. Strapper fell ill and, ere 
long, it became evident that it was her last sick¬ 
ness. 

Through the long days and nights she was 
nursed with loving care by her children, was never 
left alone, yet, without ceasing, she cried for Lena, 
the oldest. This desire to have her always by the 
bedside made Lena give up her work at the shop 
and to assume full charge of the sick-chamber and 
distracted family. Lena’s cheerfulness upheld the 
spirits of the Strepper household, but she herself 
was destined to have a heavy burden of responsibil¬ 
ity placed on her willing shoulders. 

It came during the early morning hours of her 
watch by the invalid, that she found the course of 
her life directed into different channels. The rest 
of the family, tired from their unceasing vigil, were 
slumbering, and the whispered words of the mother 
were distinctly audible to Lena, whose ear was 
closely bent to the murmuring lips. 

“ Lena.” 

“ Yes, mother.” 

‘‘ I guess you'll have to look out for father and 
the girls.” 

“ Oh, I don’t mind doing that until you get well 
again.” 

“ There’s no use o’ talking that way, Lena. I’m 
going, and I guess you all know it. Don’t you be 
jollying me now, Lena. You’re the oldest, and 


CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 243 

you ought to have more sense. And there’s no time 
for it, anyway, because I think I’ll never see day¬ 
light again.” 

‘‘ Oh, don’t be talking like that, mother. It 
makes me cry; and, besides, the doctor ain’t said 
so yet.” 

“ Now, Lena, I don’t want to set myself up for 
no better than I am, but I been going to church 
regular, and I think I can understand that our 
Father is going to call me home. And, Lena, I’m 
worried about what’s going to become o’ pa and 
the children.” 

“ Don’t worry, mother, don’t worry,” and the 
girl’s hand smoothed the grey hair of her mother 
with indescribable tenderness. ‘‘ You know you 
can depend on me, and that I’ll look out for them 
always.” 

“ No, you can’t, Lena,” said the patient, almost 
peevishly. ‘‘ You’re the oldest, and you been al¬ 
ways a good girl, and it won’t be right for you, 
now that you got the finest chance in the ward, 
to be stuck in the house all the time. No, daugh¬ 
ter, you got to marry Flanagan and—oh, what will 
become o’ them all when you go ’way, too ? ” 

“ Now, don’t go on so, mother. I can marry 
Flanagan and look out for the house, too. We been 
keeping company so long that it don’t make no dif¬ 
ference whether we get married this year or a 
couple o’ years from now, and, by then, they’ll be 


244 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


all grown up, and, maybe, married, too, and father 
can come to live with me and Cornelius/^ 

‘‘ No, father would never give in to that,^’ said 
the mother sadly. ‘‘ He’s always been against you 
marrying Flanagan; and the others—why, they’re 
only little girls, and it’ll be years before they’ll be 
anything like you.” 

When the mother died Lena thought herself 
firmly pledged to take her place, and to be a mother 
to all of her sisters until they had been wisely pro¬ 
vided for. 

Although their minds were dulled with grief, the 
members of the Strepper family could not fail to 
notice the change which had come over Lena with 
the death of the mother. As soon as the family had 
returned from the humble funeral, and the five 
younger children had retired to rest or to nurse 
their sorrow, the father spoke to the new foster- 
mother. 

“ What’s the matter, Lena ? ” 

“ Nothing, father. Why?” 

“ Oh, you been acting kind o’ funny like, so quiet, 
and as if you got a whole lot older in the last few 
hours. Lena, girl, you know we’re all sorry and 
miss our dear old mother, but it ain’t right to give 
way like that and to forget that we got to keep on 
living.” 

“ That’s just what’s the matter, father,” an¬ 
swered the girl. “We got to keep on living, and I 


CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 245 

promised mother to take her place and to look after 
the whole of you, so that you won't miss her so 
much, and that you be taken care of, and the girls 
be provided for wisely and in time." 

“ Is that it ? " smiled the father. “ Why, Lenchen, 
we won't give you much trouble, and that shouldn’t 
worry you so much. Besides, there's Annie, that’s 
only a year younger than you, and all the others, 
too, they'll be grown up before you know it, and 
then you won’t have to kill yourself working for us." 

I guess that's true, father; but I promised 
mother, and it is my duty," and with that Lena 
sounded the keynote of her future life. 

Old Strepper and the sisters, not familiar with 
cases of such focussed devotion, did not interfere 
with Lena, feeling convinced that her ‘‘ fit" would 
pass into normality in a short time. Their expec¬ 
tations were wrong, for Lena, instead of abating 
her enthusiasm, became almost a fanatic. 

She seemingly forgot the short span of time 
which stood between herself and her sisters, and 
unconsciously assuming the demeanour of an aged 
woman, acted the part of mother with a most as¬ 
tounding naturalness. To be ‘‘ mothered ” by their 
own sister was, at first, repugnant to the other 
children. Then they made her the target of ridicule. 

The father did not take sides in this family evo¬ 
lution, preferring to wait for its outcome. As 
weeks and weeks passed by, without increasing the 


246 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


expense account or diminishing the fare, he thought 
it best to let conditions remain as they were. 

Once it occurred to him to inquire what Lena 
did with the small balance left from her weekly 
allowance and not accounted for in her statement. 

“ What you been doing with that eighty cents 
you made on this week’s bill, Lena? ” 

“ Why, didn’t you folks have enough to eat ? ” 

‘‘ Oh, yes, only I thought that if you had noth¬ 
ing better to do than to buy some useless trash with 
the difference, you might as well let me have it to 
save it up and buy something decent.” 

‘‘ Well, pa, I don’t think flowers is much use, 
but I been sending the girls over in turns on Sun¬ 
days to take over the few pinks and roses that I 
could buy for them few pennies, so’s mother’s grave 
wouldn’t look so bare.” 

The father was silent for quite a time. 

Say, Lenchen, that’s all right and I ain’t be¬ 
grudging nothing for that. But why don’t you go 
over some Sunday, or go out of an evening? You’ll 
be sick, staying in the house the way you do.” 

I can’t, father. You know I got to look after 
the house and the girls,” and she went back to her 
work. 

The one who suffered most from this transfor¬ 
mation of Lena was Cornelius Flanagan. To call 
at the girl’s house was out of the question, as the 
father’s aversion was by no means overcome, and 


CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 247 


Lena would have never consented to see her in¬ 
tended in his absence and while she was alone. His 
only opportunities to exchange a word with her 
were when he was lucky enough to meet her on an 
errand to one of the stores. But she was not 
inclined to listen to any talk about naming the day, 
sending Flanagan away with the vague ultimatum 
that she had a duty now and could not think of 
getting married while the children had still to de¬ 
pend on her. 

He, too, hoped that Lena would change her 
mind; but a twelvemonth went around, and Annie, 
the next in age, forsook the parental roof to get 
married, and Flanagan’s fate was still the same. 
There were times when his patience became ex¬ 
hausted and he spoke quite bluntly. 

‘‘ Now, see here, Lena. It would be all right if 
your sisters really needed you. But they’re all 
grown up, and there is enough o’ them to take care 
of the old man. If you were to marry me now. I’d 
give you an allowance, and then you could hire a 
woman to go and take your place to do the heavy 
work in your father’s house.” 

'' It ain’t the work so much, Cornelius, as that 
they ain’t got no mother, and I promised to stay 
and do my duty to them.” 

“ Gracious, Lena, you’re talking as if you was 
seventy-five and the others about three or four 
years. I don’t blame you for trying to live up to 


248 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


the promise you made the old lady as long as it’s 
necessary, but that you been doing long ago, and 
now you owe it to me to say good-bye to all that 
and to marry me.” 

It was all in vain. 

‘‘ I can’t help it, Cornelius, and I hope you won’t 
be mad; but I promised mother-” was her in¬ 

variable answer. 

Time never stops, and in due course chick after 
chick left the coop, until only one, Lizzie, the 
youngest, remained. I do not know if Lizzie 
turned out to be a spoiled girl. If she did not it 
was not her fault, for no mother could have lav¬ 
ished more affection and tenderness on her than 
Lena did. Lena fairly worshipped and slaved for 
the last one of her charges. 

Through it all, a term of several years, Flanagan 
had stood staunch and hopeful so far as his love for 
I.ena was concerned, but had not improved thereby. 
His stubbornness helped him to swallow the jests 
which were made at the expense of his enforced 
celibacy, but to put himself into better humour aft¬ 
erward he had taken more and more to drinking. 
All this comedy-drama was played in a very narrow 
compass, and it was only natural that Lena heard 
of the evil ways of her lover. It needed only that 
to fairly upset her. 

At last came the day on which also the youngest, 
Lizzie, was ready to follow her husband into her 



CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 249 

new home, and it was an event which produced 
varying effects in the hearts and minds of those 
interested. 

Cornelius Flanagan used the occasion as an ex¬ 
cuse to get drunk and to gain forcible entrance into 
the Strepper apartments, from which he was ex¬ 
pelled by the father, who had determined to repay 
I.ena’s years of toil by making her the sole object 
of his paternal love and care. 

Lena had attended the wedding ceremony in the 
little church, but immediately after it went home, 
not caring to partake of the following feast. Al¬ 
ways quiet, her absence was not noticed until the 
evening had far advanced, and then it was the 
father who inquired for her. 

“ Oh, I guess she went home to see if there 
wasn’t some housework to be done,” sneered one, 
and the father, following the hint, hurried to the 
tenement. 

He found one who had once been Lena. Crouch¬ 
ing on the floor in her very best dress—it was 
neither silk nor satin—she was busily scrubbing. 

‘‘Lena, what are you doing?” cried the father, 
feeling himself confronted by a new condition. 

A vacant stare was the only answer, then the 
scrubbing was again resumed. 

“ Come, Lena,” pleaded the father, now thor¬ 
oughly alarmed, “Lizzie is asking for you and 
wants you to come back.” 


250 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


She smiled and crooned. 

‘‘ No, Mamie was calling me, and I told her not 
to cry, and to have nothing to do with a bad fellow 
like Eddie; and then Aggie, she wanted me to ask 
you to forgive her for—but say, father, they’re call¬ 
ing me, and I can’t find them—I can’t find them— 
and mother told me, and I’m so tired, but I got to 
look after my chicks, because I’m an old hen; Cor¬ 
nelius said so, and-” 

“ Lenchen, my Lenchen,” the father having stood 
like one transfixed until then, knelt beside his old¬ 
est child and buried his weeping eyes in the tresses 
of her bowed head, “ look at me, Lenchen! Don’t 
you know me? I’m your old father.” 

‘‘ I got to scrub the stairs yet before Lizzie comes 
home. She always laughed at me.” 

The father heard no more. The nearest physi¬ 
cian was three blocks away, but old Strepper, for¬ 
getting his years, ran with marvellous speed. 

The noise of the closing door switched Lena into 
a different mood. The appeals, the cries for her 
multiplied. It was “ Lena, Lena,” here and every¬ 
where. Now it came from the bedroom; now from 
the kitchen, and now from the street. And from 
there it came so beseechingly that no one could re¬ 
fuse to hurry there to help. But in the street there 
was nobody to be seen and—oh, yes, now it came 
from the next block. When that was reached, it 
came still from the next block, and very soon there 



CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 251 

were no more blocks, only a wide street, with a dock 
and a lot of dark water at the end of it. One 
doesn’t like to jump into the river in one’s best 
frock, but duty is duty, and a promise is a promise, 
and she thought she heard someone calling, “ Lena, 
Lena.” So just one more step, and then it would 
be found out who was in trouble, Annie or Lizzie, 

or maybe even Aggie, so here- 

“ Lena, for heaven’s sake, Lena! ” 

A man in a dishevelled police uniform sprang 
from a seat on the dock and tore the girl, who was 
about to jump into the darkness, back to the floor. 

For a moment she seemed to get back to reason 
—just long enough to recognise who had saved her. 
Then the wandering began again. 

‘‘ Heavenly Father, you know what trouble I am 
in, and you will help me. I got to do my duty 
and keep my promise, and I don’t mind, but it 
breaks my heart to see that Cornelius don’t under¬ 
stand, and goes and gets drunk, as if he didn’t care 
for me at all. You know. Father, I love him, and 
as soon as all my chicks are married—he once called 
me an old hen—then I can marry him—if he will 
still have me. I don’t think I’m good enough for 
anything else much than scrubbing and cooking, 
but I would like so much to be happy for once— 
and I hope it ain’t sinful to wish for that. But, 
now, please. Heavenly Father, excuse me, but I 
think Lizzie is crying for me, and-” 




252 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


All the rest became unintelligible, because two 
strong arms encircled her and carried her back to 
the street, where the father, who had tracked her 
to the river, met them. 

ril give you a hand carrying her back to the 
house, and then—I guess I’ll go back and do what 
she meant to do,” said Flanagan, as they steadied 
themselves to help the girl up the street. 

What are you talking about ? ” 

‘‘ Why, she knelt down there on that dock and 
prayed for me—did you hear me?—prayed for me, 
and I—not even good enough to be food for fishes.” 

There was that about the moment which swept 
away all previous misunderstandings, and the father 
could feel only grateful toward the man who had 
saved his daughter. 

‘‘She prayed for you? Well, then, you’re for¬ 
given, for God would not refuse to listen to such 
a-” 

“ To such an angel as my Lena,” Flanagan in¬ 
terrupted. “ Mr. Strepper, I’m through with every¬ 
thing that’s bad, and all the rest of my life I shall 
atone. To-night I had an illustration of how what 
it seems to have somebody die for you, and now, 
henceforth, I shall live as He wants me to live. And 
Lena will help me.” 

“ Don’t be too sure o’ that, Cornelius. My poor 
girl is very sick, and maybe she’ll never-” 

“ Oh, yes, she’ll be well again, because He 




CASE OF OFFICER FLANAGAN 253 

doesn’t let such as her die, for they are a power for 
Him on earth.” 

Cornelius Flanagan was right for once. Lena 
was soon nursed back to health and reason, and, at 
last, got married herself. The only reminder of 
that night is her hair, which became snowy white. 

This story is true. Still, should you doubt me, I 
can tell you how you can prove it yourself. 

If you should ever meet a policeman—I cannot 
disclose his present rank-—at a Christian assem¬ 
blage, look around the room, and if you see a 
bright-looking young woman with white hair in 
his near neighbourhood, you can be reasonably sure 
that they are Cornelius Flanagan and his wife, or, 
at least, the originals of these two. 


XVI 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 

I T was Thursday, trial day at headquarters, and 
the session in the deputy commissioner’s room 
was nearing its end. The usual calendar of 
minor breaches of the rules and regulations—being 
off post, in saloons, talking to citizens—had been 
overshadowed by the importance of Wardman 
Nugent’s case. 

The city had been treated to a few disclosures 
in the police department, and hints by the prosecut¬ 
ing powers seemed to promise even graver revela¬ 
tions. So far only patrolmen and wardmen had 
been tried, and convicted or acquitted, and the or¬ 
gans of the party press printed columns of uncon¬ 
vincing compassion for these more or less vicarious 
sufferers, who were magnanimously shielding the 
real grafters. These straws of sympathy were 
greedily grasped by those about to drown in the 
quagmire of corruption, and the role of persecuted 
saints sat funnily on the fat-paunched satraps of the 
hidden powers. 

The plague spot first to be probed was the Twelfth 
Precinct. Here the ruddy illumination of the il¬ 
legal resorts had thrown a vicious glow over the 
254 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 


255 


entire district. Using the very scum of humanity 
as fertiliser, the harvest of vice was abundant, and 
gathered with a searching care which overlooked 
not the tiniest seed corn. This conscientiousness 
of the harvesters had been so exemplary that it had 
been determined to make them the examples. 

That the rampage of vice could not have been 
as unrestrained as it was without the connivance of 
the police captain—the Old Man—^went without 
saying; but to make surer of his conviction his 
adjutants and intermediaries were first brought 
within the toils. 

It was owing to this plan of procedure that John 
Nugent had found himself the defendant in the star 
trial on this Thursday. It had gone against him. 
The census of the police department was less by 
one, and the unfaded spot on his vest where his 
detective’s badge had been fastened was the only 
outward reminder of Nugent’s recent glory and 
authority. 

That the news of his fall had quickly spread 
through the building was evident. Instead of the 
former genial greetings of the astute sentries, 
posted throughout the hall of the sombre building, 
a noncommittal How d’you do, John?” given 
here and there with great caution was the only rec¬ 
ognition vouchsafed to Nugent. He felt it. Let 
the mighty fall, and the slightest omission of the 
former ceremonial is like a stab. 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


256 

To show realisation of his disgrace was not 
among Nugent’s traits, and the usual mask of pur¬ 
poseless talk was used. 

“ Well, Ed, you mightn’t believe it,” he said to 
Traphagen, his former “ side partner,” and still a 
wardman, “ but I’m glad it’s all over.” 

They had descended the stoop leading to the 
street. 

Are you sure it’s all over?” questioned Trap¬ 
hagen dubiously. 

“ Why, of course it is,” replied Nugent assuredly. 
“ They’re all through with me.” 

“ Don’t you remember that there was some talk 
about having you indicted by the Grand Jury? ” 

“ Oh, that be blowed! Why did they break me ? 
Only to pave the way for the Old Man’s trial. 
Wasn’t that it? ” 

“ Yes, that was one of the reasons.” 

“ That was all the reason! ” shouted Nugent, with 
conviction. “ There was just enough evidence to 
get me out o’ the department, but they need more 
than that ‘ down below ’ to convict me in a court.” 

And how do you know that they ain’t got it ? ” 

“Now what’s the use of talking that way?” 
asked Nugent. “ They had several of the fellows 
indicted, but couldn’t convict them on account of 
the poor evidence. They can’t afford to throw any 
more bluffs, but got to be sure of a conviction be¬ 
fore they indict a fellow. Now, the only thing that 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 


^57 

could convict me is Schreiber’s testimony. And 
they know that Schreiber’ll stick-” 

“But will he?” interjected Traphagen. “You 
know they’re a foxy lot o’ gents, that new crowd 
in the district attorney’s office, and they made more 
than one sticker squeal.” 

“ I don’t care what they did,” said Nugent de¬ 
cisively. “ Schreiber is going to stick. They’re all 
through with me, and the only one I’m sorry for 
now is the captain. They got him cinched, and 
there’s no help for him.” 

“ Well, I hope that’s how it is,” said Traphagen, 
apparently unconvinced. “ I wish I could feel as 
confident if I were in your place.” 

They had come through Mulberry Street and 
were about to separate at Broome Street when a 
young man, who seemed to have been waiting for 
them, came across from Centre Market. 

“ Want to see you for a minute, Nugent.” 

Traphagen watched the ex-wardman’s face dur¬ 
ing the recital of the message and saw in its expres¬ 
sion a confirmation of his fears. 

“What do you think?” cried Nugent, rejoining 
his friend. “ They did indict me! Schreiber 
squealed! They had the warrant all ready, and now 
they’re after me. They’ve even been to the house.” 

“ What do you intend to do? ” asked Traphagen 
hopelessly. 

“ I suppose I got to fight them, after all.” 



258 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ But can you ? ” 

“ That’s it. I don’t know whether I can or not. 
With Scheiber on their side—^but, great heavens! 
would you want me to lay down and let them send 
me away ? ” 

‘‘ What else can you do except that or skip ? ” 

“ Gee, don’t talk that way, Ed, don’t,” Nugent 
pleaded. “ I’ll get bail or something. Skip ? Only 
guilty fellows do that, and there’s the wife and-” 

‘‘ Who, in Heaven’s name, would go your bail 
under these circumstances ? ” relentlessly questioned 
Traphagen. ‘‘Take my advice and skip. Jersey 
ain’t far. It won’t hurt you to stay over there for 
a few months, and by that time they’ll have some 
of the big fellows and might forget all about you. 
I got to leave you, John. Don’t forget to let me 
know what you’re going to do. So long.” 

Left alone, Nugent stood a prey to his thoughts. 

There had been no false hope about the outcome 
of the trial at headquarters. Even without the cor¬ 
roboration of his lawyer, Nugent had seen that 
nothing but dismissal from the force could have 
been his share. But neither he nor his counsel had 
dreamed of further persecution. Had this seemed 
probable, he would have been prepared, would have 
sent emissaries to Schreiber to get him out of the 
way, and would have had a bondsman ready to go 
bail. Coming as unexpectedly as it did, the situa¬ 
tion had bereft the ex-wardman of his small allow- 



A LIMB OF THE LAW 


259 


ance of reasoning power. Shuttled by weak bra¬ 
vado and much fear, he floundered, waiting for a 
cue from destiny. 

‘‘ Papa.” 

His little daughter was the prompter of fate. 

“ Irene, girlie! What are you doing here, so far 
from the house? ” 

The blue-eyed little tot, oppressed by the im¬ 
portance of her errand, felt relieved at having this 
opportunity of unbosoming herself. 

‘‘ It's only three blocks from the house, and 
mamma said to run and meet you here, and to give 
you this when nobody is looking.” Nugent led the 
girl into an empty booth in the market, where he 
proceeded to read the communication brought by 
her. 

John: The district-attorney’s men have been in the house 
and searched it. They questioned me until I did not know 
what to say. Now they are hanging around the neighbourhood 
and waiting for you. Oh, why did you do it, John? From 
what I understand there is no escape for you. Even the cap¬ 
tain was afraid to call at the house, but sent the message I 
inclose. For Heaven’s sake destroy this and the captain’s as 
soon as you read it, and do not send any answer with Irene. 
They might catch her and search her. Oh, this is fearful, 
John. I’ve been expecting it long ago. There was only this 
one end for it. I don’t know how I am going to hear from 
you in safety. There is always the chance that they might 
learn where you are keeping yourself. I am crazy, John, over 
this. Mary. 

The inclosure from the captain was very brief: 


26 o 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Jig is up. Get away as quick as you can. There is no help 
for you whatever, and if you stay or get caught it would make 
it only worse for you and me. If you need money, write to 
Mr. Harrison Wade, in care of Frank’s. Tear this up and 
then burn it. 

Nugent obeyed only part of the instructions. He 
set fire to the note and crushed the ashes with his 
foot. Then he lifted the little girl to his arms. 

“ Now, Irene, here’s a quarter for you. You run 
right home and tell your mother that it’s all right 
and that—no, that’s all, Irene. And now run home 
like a good little girl. And, say, Irene, you love 
your pop, don’t you?” 

‘‘ Oh, how I love my big papa/’ and two plump 
arms squeezed the big, ungainly neck with trem^en- 
dous might. The father set her down, gave her the 
quarter, and sent her rejoicing on her way. 

Nugent watched the little figure until she turned 
the corner. Then it came to him that he had to act, 
and act quickly. Here he was, standing in full 
view at a street corner, no more than three blocks 
from his home, which was surrounded by his per¬ 
secutors. His mind, bloated by usurped authority, 
much lassitude, and undreamed-of prosperity, could 
no longer argue the confronting condition, and ad¬ 
vised flight. He had to get away. 

In his muddled state only the most recent sug¬ 
gestions were remembered. Traphagen, his side 
partner, had mentioned New Jersey. To get there 


A LIMB OF THE LAW . 261 

became his sole intention. Once there, extradition 
could be fought, which meant long delays, if noth¬ 
ing else. But, though so near, it was not so easy 
to get there for one who was known to almost 
every member of the force—that force which played 
no favourites in the ambition of its units. What a 
feather in the cap of a humble patrolman—if such 
there be—to catch the indicted and ‘‘ wanted ” ex- 
wardman! 

Nugent knew all this. His bosom had often 
throbbed with similar emotions. But he was 
enough of the gambler to take a chance on luck, 
placing more reliance on that than on his own 
shrewdness. 

He hurriedly walked toward Broadway, and, 
keeping a sharp lookout for former colleagues, 
crossed. He threw a dime to a newsboy and 
snatched the evening papers. The very first glance 
showed him that the last few hours had made him 
the celebrity of the day. His name seemed to glare 
at him from every page. 

A diligent search for the indicted and missing ex-wardman 
has been instituted by the combined forces of the district- 
attorney’s office and the police department. His early capture 
is confidently expected. 

This paragraph was hammered into Nugent’s 
mind by the sledge of conscience. His courage, 
dwarfed by copartnership with criminality, deserted 


262 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


him absolutely, and even his shadow became a pur¬ 
suing spectre. Hurriedly making his way toward 
the river front, his gait had almost become a run 
as he turned into quiet Watts Street. 

Here, only a few yards from teeming West 
Street, within the echo of the noise from piers and 
ferries, shaded by a solitary tree, was a basement 
saloon. It was a placid brick building wrapped in 
tranquillity—suspicious tranquillity. The song and 
shout of merry roisterers was never heard. No one 
in the neighbourhood patronised it. Yet, there it 
was, had been there for years, and seemed to be sat¬ 
isfied with its mysterious existence. 

Assuring himself by a furtive glance that he had 
not been followed, Nugent descended the few steps 
to the saloon. It was not the first time he had been 
there. The two men who sat at one of the tables, 
and the bartender, knew him, but gave no sign of 
recognition. From the paper, which the bartender 
had been reading, his name in heavy type again 
greeted the ex-wardman. 

Nugent quickly stepped to the table and ad¬ 
dressed himself to one of the men. 

“ Just the man I want, Charlie.’’ 

“ You got another guess coming, Nugent,” was 
the cool rejoinder, while the front page of the 
evening paper was conspicuously displayed to him. 
“ See that? We ain’t living out in the woods. We 
know what’s doing and that your ‘ wanting ’ days 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 263 

are over. Besides, there’s nothing against me on 
the blotter just now.” 

‘‘ I don’t mean that,” Nugent hastened to ex¬ 
plain. I just want to have a little talk with you 
—and you won’t lose nothing by it.” 

They retired to the rear part of the saloon, and 
plunged into what seemed to be persuasion pitted 
against obstinacy. 

Charlie was evidently averse to the proposition 
made to him. 

You ain’t got no right to claim that you done 
me such a great good turn that time you let me get 
away,” growled Charlie. “ You copped all the 
swag that was mine by rights, and then it couldn’t 
be recovered after.” 

“ But wasn’t it better to get away than to keep 
the swag and go up the river for at least a sixer? ” 
asked Nugent, with righteous indignation. “ Be a 
good boy. Help me out o’ this and, as I told you, 
you won’t lose nothing by it.” 

“That’s understood,” said Charlie. “You don’t 
think for a minute I’m going to do this for love, 
if I do it at all, which I won’t. No, I can’t. I 
ain’t got so much agin’ you and I’d like to make 
the money—but there’s the gang. If they’d ever 
hear that I helped a cop, and especially you, out of 
a hole—well, you know what they’d do to me.” 

“ But I ain’t a cop no more, Charlie, and, be¬ 
sides, they’ll never know anything about it. Only 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


264 

you and me know about it, and the dock ain’t no 
more than a jump from here.” 

Nugent flashed a fat roll of bills with wise intent. 

“ Well, I tell you,” said Charlie, duly impressed 
by the object lesson. Give me the money, so’s 
that I can get a boat, and I’ll tie it under the dock. 
And that’s all I’m going to do. And, another thing, 
you got to stay under the dock until I give you the 
tip to get out. I ain’t going to have you hang 
’round here and have any of the gang tumble to 
what kind of game we’re cooking up. Is that 
understood ? ” 

Nugent passed over the money, and, after buy¬ 
ing a bottle of whisky, which he put in his pocket, he 
was led to the dock by his pilot. 

The long dock at the foot of Watts Street was on 
one side crowded with the scows destined to receive 
part of the city’s refuse. An incline, which had to 
be ascended by the carts to dump their contents into 
the waiting barges, reached a height of about 
twenty feet above the level of the pier. Under this 
incline, salvage from the refuse—rags, paper, 
bones—was stored by Italians who were working 
for a contractor, who pays a considerable amount 
annually to the city for this privilege. 

Into one corner of this cavern of rubbish Nu¬ 
gent was led to await the return of Charlie. It was 
in the afternoon, and, the work of filling the barges 
being done at night, the place was deserted. 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 265 

Left alone, Nugent, aided by his bottle, found 
himself staring into a kaleidoscope of recollections. 
There were the pictures of the honest young me¬ 
chanic; of the newly appointed policeman, sworn 
to protect men and property, to enforce and not to 
break the laws; of the true little woman, who had 
married him and who had immediately been bur¬ 
dened with the knowledge of their shame; of the 
little girl—papa’s own little girl ”—who had 
often, by her childish prattle, momentarily stirred 
submerged impulses of righteousness, who had 
m.ade him long to be a worthy parent; and then the 
apotheosis, the picture of the octopus of systematic 
and regulated corruption, stifling all else, excepting 
avarice and greed. 

Like a rat in its hole, Nugent slunk back in his 
corner in the rubbish. He shivered. The bottle 
was only half emptied. He decreased it to one- 
fourth. 

Sullen despair settled on his mind, and, what 
he would have least expected—sleep—came to him 
and bridged the wait to the hour of darkness and 
escape. 

He woke with a start. He had felt a touch. The 
vision of the two glittering eyes before him was 
deemed the tail-end of his dream. 

‘‘You know me, Meester Policeman, no?” 

“No. Who are you and what do you want?” 
Nugent, now fully aroused, tried yainly to dis- 


266 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


tinguish the features of the man whose face was in 
the shadow of the lantern held before him. 

‘‘ Ah, you no care who I am! I—^me, Pasquale 
Farsotti. Me, a poor dago, a dirty dago. I tell you 
what I want, Meester Policeman. I want to kill 
you, Meester Policeman! ” 

The stooping figure of the Italian straightened 
itself. In the dim light of the lantern Nugent saw 
the sinister glitter of a knife. The ex-wardman 
could not make a move without precipitating his 
doom. The Italian’s cunning watchfulness pre¬ 
cluded impulsive action. 

“You’re crazy, man!” Nugent hoped that pala¬ 
ver would bring him the desired opportunity to take 
the Italian by surprise. “ I don’t know you and 
don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

An evil leer framed the Italian’s mouth. 

“ Yes, me craze. You maka me craze, you know. 
You no remember little stand, when you come every 
day, with uniform, and take fruit. Me get a wife, 
getta da store. Then you come every day. You 
say: “Where’s mine?” You taka everything. 
You taka, too, da mon. You come one day I go 
way. Only my wife, my Fiametta, in da store. 
She no know you. She no give da mon. You 
kicka her and taka da little cross on her breast. And 
when she die in da hospital, I come to you, and I 
ask, please, give little cross. And you laugh, and 
you say: ‘ Dirty dago, go ’way.’ Then, I go craze. 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 267 

and I lose everything, everything. And now I 
picka da rags, and I say every day ‘ Vendetta,’ and 
I pray I find you. And now I laugh, Meester Po¬ 
liceman, me, Pasquale Farsotti.” 

Nugent’s every nerve was on the alert. At last, 
a step. But the Italian also heard and took it for 
his cue for action. Keeping his ferret-like eyes on 
the ex-wardman, Farsotti placed the lantern on the 
ground. Then, without shout or shriek, he threw 
himself on his cowering enemy and the struggle 
began. 

The ex-wardman was armed, but the Italian’s 
limbs were about him like the coils of a snake and 
Nugent could not reach his hip pocket. Over heaps 
of rubbish and piles of rags they rolled, grimly 
silent. As they squirmed out to the open pier from 
the boarded partition, Nugent saw Charlie stand¬ 
ing at the edge of the dock. 

“ Charlie, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be standing 
there like that,” panted the ex-wardman. “ Get 
the gun out of my pocket, or soak him on the head 
with something.” 

“ Nix,” answered the young thief, without 
changing his position. ‘‘ That ain’t part o’ my 
game. I don’t know what’s between you two, and 
it ain’t for me to interfere in any grudge. Fight 
it out between yourselves.” 

The Italian was silent, but not inactive. 

‘‘ Charlie, Charlie, for God’s sake,” whispered 


268 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Nugent, weakening rapidly. “ He’s cutting me to 
pieces. Charlie, for God’s sake, don’t let me die 
like a dog. I’ll give you anything you want.” 

Oh, shut up,” sneered the thief, “ I’m sorry I 
got mixed up with this at all. There’s your boat, 
down here, and that’s all I got to do with you. I’d 
better leave you two to yourselves. So long, and 
I hope the best man wins. No coroner’s inquest for 
mine.” 

The crook turned toward the street. Passing the 
boarded sheltering of the rubbish, a rancid stench 
made him discover a dullish red glow on the other 
side of the partition. The lantern had been upset 
in the struggle. 

Even before Charlie had overcome his curiosity 
to find out all about the fire, a pistol shot rang 
out. 

“ Gee, this is where I make tracks for home and 
mother,” said Charlie, suiting the action to his 
words. 

The shot had been heard by others. Several men 
were coming from the street. Two policemen were 
among them. 

“Here, what’s this?” cried one of the bluecoats, 
grabbing Charlie. 

“ Honest, I don’t know,” answered the crook, 
but he was, nevertheless, compelled to go with the 
officers to the scene of the suspected tragedy. 

With his head hanging over the edge of the pier 


A LIMB OF THE LAW 269 

they found Pasquale Farsotti with a bullet in his 
heart. Of the ex-wardman there was no trace. 

Aha/’ commented the policeman, who still had 
Charlie in his firm grasp, ‘‘and you don’t know 
anything about this, do you? Now, don’t you say 
anything which might be used against you, for 
Charlie, my boy, it looks bad for you.” 

At the station house a little cross of gold, in¬ 
scribed “ Fiametta Farsotti,” was found on Charlie. 
A bundle of letters in the Italian’s pockets were ad¬ 
dressed to Pasquale Farsotti—and the blue-coated 
jurists smiled a meaning smile at Charlie. 

It did not take very long to speed Charlie along 
the routine of justice. A few weeks, and all hope 
was gone. 

“ It serves me right,” soliloquised Charlies in his 
cell. ‘‘Just think o’ me trying to do a favour for 
a cop! That Nugent! He knew I was crooked, 
but he couldn’t button his coat so’s that cross 
wouldn’t show on his watch slang. And him know¬ 
ing I’d sooner steal than eat! I wonder if he really 
drowned? There’s no trusting them fellows only 
as long as you see them.” 

It was a worrying thought. 

“ There’s that old gag about truth always com¬ 
ing out. Well, I only hope it will in this case,” 
Charlie sighed. “ Gee, wouldn’t it be fierce to get 
the rinky-dink for this, when I ain’t had nothing to 
do with it ? And only a dago, too! ” 


270 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


The strike of the miners had brought violence 
and destruction in its wake. Sullen parties of 
strikers were watching the heavily armed emer¬ 
gency officers who were guarding the ground and 
property of the company. 

Here and there a sentry would take a fleeting 
glance at a newspaper. 

“ Hey, Jack, want to look at this? ” shouted one 
to a stockily-built fellow who was guarding the 
entrance to the shaft of the mine. ‘‘ A man might 
as well be in the desert as in Glastonburg for all 
the news you get. That there paper is a week old, 
and it’s the latest I could get of any New York 
papers.” 

The other accepted the paper and looked through 
its columns carelessly. Suddenly he forgot his 
duty of guarding and read with avidity. 

“ So they got Charlie for doing the dago,” he 
remarked when he had finished the article. ‘‘ It’s 
tough on him, but what did he want to swipe that 
cross from my watch chain for? Now, ten chances 
to one, he’ll wind up in the chair.” 

Nugent threw the paper away, but what he had 
read could not be gotten rid of so easily. The see¬ 
saw of his emotions threw him into varying moods. 
His conscience, warped and distorted as it was, 
strove bravely, and- 

‘‘ It’s funny how this business makes a fellow 



A LIMB OF THE LAW 


271 


feel! Just as if I should go to the nearest telegraph 
office and wire them that I- By God, I will! ” 

The Good had a grip on Nugent and was leading 
him to the nearest telegraph office. Then the Bad, 
the older stand-by, asserted itself. 

It was the hour of evening's coming. A bird 
in the thicket began to carol his even-song. Like 
an anthem of thanksgiving the clear notes swung 
through the gathering vapours to the skies above. 
From the marshes came the minor chords of frog 
and cricket. All nature seemed to have intoned a 
droning, thrilling lullaby of rest, crooned by a 
chorus, impelled by trusting love. And even the 
ex-wardman felt the pervading whisper of creation. 

This was something like living. 

He had never felt like this before. He was in¬ 
spired, hope rose in his breast. Peering through 
the mists before him, he saw the vision of his fu¬ 
ture: new fields of profitable activity, new worlds 
to conquer in the same old way. The past, that 
unlucky past, shrank, until it struck at the picture 
of Charlie in his cell. The Good made its last as¬ 
sault. The Bad made its strongest defence. But 
the ex-wardman wanted to live. 

‘‘To hell with him!" murmured Nugent; and 
returned to his post. 



XVII 


THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 


H aving spent practically all my life in the 
tenement locality, and having watched for 
many years the spread of the liberal and 
educational tendencies among my people, I could 
not fail to be struck by a certain palpable oversight 
on the part of the many professional and volunteer 
educators and philanthropists who have invaded 
our precincts with the best intent. Perhaps I am 
wrong in my observation and deduction, or, per¬ 
haps, if this oversight exists it is intentional and for 
good reasons. However, being of the belief that 
an honest opinion is always worthy of a hearing, 
I will state my case and am only too willing to be 
proven wrong. You see, we—the under-dogs— 
have not many opportunities to express ourselves. 
Labour disputes are arbitrated, capital is always 
willing to meet its employees at the conference table, 
but philanthropy and pauperism have not yet 
reached that degree of mutual cooperation. As it 
is, philanthropy is active, pauperism is passive; one 
prescribes, the other takes the medicine without 
doubting or caring very much for its efficiency. 
And there is good reason for arbitration in our 
272 




THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 273 

lowest social strata. Do you think it would hurt 
sociological endeavour to have the other side ” ex¬ 
press its opinion concerning certain phases of it? 
To effect speedy cures the concurrence of the patient 
is the most helpful, and a parliament of paupers and 
philanthropists, while bringing a better understand¬ 
ing and removing many prejudices, will create new 
perspectives and will prove the absolute futility of 
exploiting many pet theories. We—the under-dogs 
—have not sufficient say in this matter. The man 
who can twist an old doctrine into a new shape and 
can find a dozen followers can have columns for 
the utterance of his new-fangled philosophy, and is 
almost driven into the assumption that he is the 
long-expected prophet. (I have read some of these 
essays and have, too, met some of the writers. 
They are remarkable—-both, the articles and the 
writers.) But we, the swallowers of the homoeo¬ 
pathic and allopathic doses of social medicine, have 
to keep silent, and it is but rarely that one of us— 
as I in this case—has the chance to say or write 
something concerning the conditions prevalent 
among us, only to have his say ridiculed or bal¬ 
looned by inflated statements. 

As I and many of us of the tenements see it, all 
the trained, scientific, and religious endeavours in 
the slums have, after all, the one object; to teach 
us the art and science of life, of leading honest, 
pure, and wholesome lives. I have not yet heard 


274 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


even the most radical express the opinion that such 
lives can be lived without the foundation of a home. 
And homes down our way are still things of horror. 
You know what they are physically; not a day 
passes without having such a home ’’ pictured in 
all its hideous detail in print. That they are bad 
is also further proven by the spasmodic movements 
to furnish other dwelling places for those now 
herded in tenements, and by the daily invasions of 
women who teach the essential features which make 
an orderly home. But what about the home spirit, 
the home life? Can you expect to make an ideal 
home out of a household in which the wife, son, 
and daughter are constantly exposed to the best in¬ 
fluences and the father is absolutely neglected ? 
What, then, is done for the fathers? 

About two years ago, following one of my stories 
in a monthly periodical, in which I told of the 
slowly awakening desire for broader education 
among the younger of a certain class of my people, 
another writer contributed an article indorsing and 
improving on me. The picture gracing the first 
page of his article was that of an Italian labourer 
who was being taught the rudiments of writing and 
spelling by his little son, a pupil of the public school. 
I liked the picture and the story because they were 
true—but only to a limited extent. Were these even¬ 
ing sessions of father and son the usual custom no 
stories would be written about them, and they are 


THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 275 

only remarkable because of their exception. As it 
is, most homes are deserted during the evening 
hours. 

The breadwinners of the family, not at all prop¬ 
erly sustained by their noon lunch (there’s some¬ 
thing to write about, that noon lunch), hurriedly 
swallow supper. If of the advanced ” order, the 
children, and even the mother, quickly adorn them¬ 
selves for presentation at class, settlement, club, or 
lecture; if of the “ old ” order, the mother goes out 
to do her shopping and gossiping, the daughter has¬ 
tens to meet her ‘‘ steady,” and the son joins his 
particular “ gang ” at its corner. And the father ? 
Well, he is tired and can enjoy his leisure. I can¬ 
not speak for other localities, but I know that the 
boy with hoof and horns is always waiting for these 
leisure hours and never misses an opportunity to 
“ get next to the old man.” Our evening journals 
have become such fashion and etiquette teachers, 
not mentioning their beauty hints, that the old 
man ” finds very little reading in them, unless he 
wishes to help his wife and daughter by selecting 
some pattern for them. What shall he do after 
reading his paper? Where can he go? Of course 
there is the saloon, but, almost more than the sa¬ 
loons, the political ward clubs are bidding for his 
attendance—and are we not trying to keep the old 
man ” away from the real thing in devils? 

And right here we have a striking commentary 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


276 

on the situation. The ward politician, always close 
to his people, if not of them, has long ago recognised 
the spirit of gregariousness among the fathers, and 
utilises it most mightily. He is the only one who 
offers to the tired men of the tenement a more or 
less pleasant “ hang-out ” for the evening. He 
does not advertise his club, does not ask for dona¬ 
tions or subscriptions, although membership fees 
have to be paid, and seems to have no trouble in 
engineering his enterprise. This the politician, 
whom we blame for most of our discouraging con¬ 
ditions, does because he knows the minds and in¬ 
clinations of the people, to whom, through our 
apathy, he stands in a wrongly paternal position. 

In speaking of this subject to others I have been 
told that a home, improved in tone by “ advanced 
mothers and children, cannot fail to reform the 
father. I hope there is enough evidence to prove 
that assertion; I so far have failed to see it. It is 
difficult to consider this without taking each na¬ 
tionality and race of the slums separately, yet I have 
found in the cases which have come under my ob¬ 
servation that the fathers are either treated with 
mild and condescending contempt or are shown 
that they are a cause of shame to their progeny, or 
are practically driven from the house. A greed for 
learning and advancement has sprung up which 
has usurped many home functions. I know that 
every night in the week, Sundays included, the 


THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 277 

father can go to a club. But we should not forget 
that most of these men, old, or at least middle- 
aged, have spent most of their lives in the home 
country, have still the old notions, are tired with 
everlasting struggling, and can scarcely be expected 
to find the right recreation at the noisy, dissertative, 
and radical meetings conducted by the leaders of 
the proletariat. The fathers have lost the faculty 
of becoming feverish on short notice. They have 
their experience behind them, and now, less ag¬ 
gressive than their sons, they long for quieter di¬ 
version. Yet they still can reason and see, and 
they wonder why the great leaders, the talkers, the 
prophets, are so singularly absent on the day when 
they are most needed—the day of the ballot. 

If any lasting or intelligent efforts have been 
made to fertilise the leisure hours of the grown 
men of the tenements they have escaped my notice. 
On the other hand, I know of several well-meant, 
well-planned, and then ill-fated attempts to rectify 
the present state of affairs. They failed mostly be¬ 
cause of external reasons. 

It seems to be very hard for those who come to 
the slums to understand that the period of transi¬ 
tion cannot be accomplished in a day. Workers in 
rescue missions feel deeply discouraged when hear¬ 
ing that a promising convert of the night before— 
promising on account of his abject dilapidation— 
and converted by the weird and frenzied harangue 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


278 

of some theological privateer, not forgetting the 
bed or meal ticket, has ‘‘ slid back again ” on the 
following day. I yield to no one in my loyalty to 
the good, old-fashioned religion, but I hate to have 
lived in sin, wickedness, and crime a lifetime and 
then depend on the version of His Word as offered 
in those missions to drag me from the mire of 
years and place me immediately and securely on 
the soundest Rock of Ages. It is forgotten that 
these wrecked men are mentally deranged by or¬ 
ganic or nervous disorders and that they cannot 
become the equals of the lesser saints in the twin¬ 
kling of an eye. 

In a similar degree we find this same drawback 
in other instances. A few years ago a number of 
splendid women opened a “Tea Parlour—For Men 
Only.” It met with instantaneous success. The 
place was filled from its.regular opening hour, 10 
A. M. (we have few bankers or men with banking 
hours down my way), until the closing time, nine 
o’clock. I went there on the third day after its 
opening. The twenty-three men present, with one 
curious exception, were from the Bowery lodging 
houses, seven blocks distant, every one of them a 
professional pauper and only fit for the workhouse 
or jail. The men, the fathers of the immediate 
neighbourhood, did not hear of the existence of the 
place until about a week later. And why not? 
Nicely printed bills stating that a place where men 


THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 279 

of the neighbourhood and their sons could assem¬ 
ble for social intercourse having been deemed desir¬ 
able, it had been provided, and “ you are cordially 
invited,” were distributed in every lodging house 
on the Bowery. But the fathers were again for¬ 
gotten. Some of them went eventually to look at 
the place, or even to enter, but very few went the 
second time. The place oozed an unnatural, steril¬ 
ised kindness, and the appointments were absolutely 
ridiculous from the standpoint of the men. We 
learn slowly, we grown-ups, yet our ballots count as 
much. 

Then there was that club, started with the most 
sublime proposition of founding a place for “ all 
sorts- and conditions of men.” Confession is good 
for the soul—and I was one of the dreamers. Ah, 
we dreamed and fabled of a better understanding, 
how capitalist and sweat-shop worker would meet 
to enjoy equal privileges, how we would be but 
men, facing one another on the level of our con¬ 
science. Alas! before we were fairly started it was 
decided by the powers that we—not the capitalists— 
could not govern ourselves, and we were provided 
with necessary and advisable restrictions. Mem¬ 
bers were invited, even sought. They came in 
hordes; therefore care had to be taken in their 
selection. This, by the way, was an appendix to 
‘‘ all sorts and conditions.” Several representatives 
of the leading gangs ” were asked to become 


28 o 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


members, but as they in one or two evenings could 
not shake off the liberal education of the streets, 
accumulated in many years, they were asked to 
leave. Unfortunately, some people come quicker 
than they leave; factions formed; the president, 
famous throughout the world as educator and or¬ 
ganiser, could not handle the element—and now 
nothing is left excepting: ‘‘To Let.’’ 

The most discouraging feature about these move¬ 
ments is that, although not intended to be educa¬ 
tional and only intended as social centres, they are 
almost invariably established without consulting the 
people of the territory to be benefited and without 
being assured that the need for such a movement 
exists there. Although not the best illustration, the 
much-mentioned Subway Tavern will make the 
point clearer. In the cleverly managed press notices 
preceding the opening of the place a certain divine 
was quoted as describing the Tavern as a “ place 
where the tired toiler and mechanic could have his 
glass of beer—if he must have it—as good as it can 
be brewed and in as cheerful surroundings as pos¬ 
sible—until we shall have real people’s clubs 
throughout our city, yes, throughout our land.” 

That the Subway Tavern did not start out rightly 
and energetically to live up to its purpose and that 
it has utterly failed in it those who have been there 
recently and some time ago will admit. Above all 
there was no demand for it in that particular local- 


THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 281 


ity. Surrounded on one side by business and manu¬ 
facturing concerns, on the other by an institution 
for children and Police Headquarters, on the third 
it is flanked by a row of tenements inhabited by 
Italians, who prefer their own saloons, where big¬ 
ger ”—and worse—beers are given and where 
more noise is permitted. Depending for its day 
trade on the near-by business houses and headquar¬ 
ters, it is a “sight of New York” in the evening, 
visited by gay tourists and sightseers. The other 
fallacies and mistakes of the Tavern have been too 
often discussed to receive additional mentioning 
here. However, I would like to quote here a man 
who has lived for over twenty years in Elizabeth 
Street tenements—two blocks from the Tavern. 

I asked him his candid opinion of the Tavern. 
He had been to it—once. 

“ Oh, I guess it’s all right. Them two blocks 
over there have never been much good for the 
liquor business since the high license, but that Tav¬ 
ern’ll make out all right with all the advertising 
it got and the many swell people that go to see it.” 

“ But don’t you people of the neighbourhood 
frequent it?” 

“What’ll we do that for? They have nothing 
there that I can’t get better right two doors from 
my house. Besides, they’re a company or a cor- 
poration, and they’re the devil to do business 
with! ” 


282 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


‘‘ But don’t you think it will have a certain in¬ 
fluence on the neighbourhood ? ” 

“ Influence ? Influence ? Are you kidding me, 
now?” Yet he grew serious. “When I see how 
them rich people spend money to do something for 
our wives and children I take my hat off to them; 
but when they get ‘ bit ’ for a thing like that, when 
they let every Tom, Dick, and Harry come along 
and get them to put up money for that kind of a 
thing and think we want it, then I know they don’t, 
or don’t want to, understand us—and I get dis¬ 
couraged.” 

The point of the above is that many of my peo¬ 
ple, on account of the ill-advised and foolish ex¬ 
periments practised on the slums, have lost their 
faith in the sagacity and sincerity of the philan¬ 
thropists. 

Yet, in spite of great obstacles, so many things 
have been made possible that I am fain to believe 
people’s, or at least men’s, clubs of the right sort 
should be feasible. Another feature, perhaps at¬ 
tractive to some investing philanthropist, is that 
they would be self-supporting, paying fair interest 
on the capital. Have we not the Mills Houses as 
glorious examples of philanthropic investment! 
Built to pay four, they are now paying close on 
twenty per cent. Yet, with all possible appreciation 
of the boon they were to bring, many of us who 
understand the true conditions in slums and lodging 


THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 283 

houses would like to see them closed to-day. But 
this being hardly to the point, let us return to the 
practical side of the clubs. 

Less than one hundred thousand dollars would 
equip club houses or rooms for over thirty city 
wards. A moderate membership fee should be 
fixed. Among other sources of revenue would 
come the payment for games, special entertainments, 
and the rent of the hall for all sorts of neighbour¬ 
hood doings, not forgetting the politicians, who 
should be only too welcome to expound their plat¬ 
forms to the club members. The election of the 
first officers and the original starting of the club 
will not be easy, but will repay early disappointment 
by continued permanency. Factional disruption, 
political partisanship, and other threatening dangers 
should be easily curbed or made impossible by care¬ 
ful charter and by-laws. Not to be behind the Sub¬ 
way Tavern, the selling of drink should be left to 
the option of each individual club. Not one of 
them should be started with a bar. By the time 
the men have sufficient funds to think about the 
bar they might have outgrown their strongest 
longing for it. If they must have it, let them 
own it and, in part at least, receive their money 
back. 

I have neither the space nor the intention to go 
deeper into the club project at this time. But I 
want to assure you that the men can govern them- 


284 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


selves and that they are ready to spend their leisun 
hours decently. They will not be patronised and 
must be handled with the same tact exercised with 
the members of our fashionable clubs. Above all, 
every member of the club must be a resident of the 
ward, or, at least, must have a home, and the club 
must not become a ‘‘ sight of New York —not un¬ 
til you will escort idle gapers into our houses to 
show them ** how they live.’’ 

I need not add that I have not the training to 
give you a scientific treatise on the subject. But I 
know what the men do now in their leisure hours 
and what they could be made to do. Only too fre¬ 
quently these men are misjudged. I am often 
astounded on hearing people who should know bet¬ 
ter speak of Bowery lodgers as men of the tene¬ 
ments. Less than a tenth part of the fifty thousand 
men who sleep, night after night, in lodging houses 
come from the tenements. The creatures of the 
lodging houses are the black sheep of decent fami¬ 
lies, wrecks of their own folly, discarded relatives, 
idiots, made that by some domestic tragedy which 
unbalances them; undesirable immigrants, lured 
here by promises of plenty—in a word, they are the 
human junk heap of the countiy, picked up from 
miles around and heedlessly thrown into the dives 
and lodging houses and left to rot. 

The man of the tenement? Oh, he broods and 
‘‘ dopes ” his life away and would crack many a 



\ 
























































THE SLUMS’ POINT OF VIEW 285 

joke at the expense of his brother, the ox, did he 
but know of him. 

I cannot rid myself of the opinion that the solu¬ 
tion of many of our existing evils lies in patriotic 
politics. And what can we expect if we leave him, 
he of the vote, absolutely to the ward heeler, who, so 
far, seems to be the only one to understand the 
‘‘ old man ” ? While it will be very difficult to 
make saints out of the men of my people, and while 
the clubs will never accomplish it, the men, through 
the clubs, would gradually come out of their lethargy 
and would come closer to their families and their 
land. 


XVIII 


THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 

T he mass-meeting held in the old Thalia 
Theatre under the auspices of the Tus- 
carora Club was in full swing. The audi¬ 
ence, packing the house to its very top, saw the cus¬ 
tomary platform arrangement on the roomy stage. 
In the centre was the speaker’s table, covered with 
an American flag and topped with the usual pitcher 
and glass. Flanking it on either side, several local 
celebrities and the battery of orators were disposing 
themselves. Back of the front row and as far as 
the very wall of the stage the less important leaders 
and captains were permitted to show their constit¬ 
uents that they ‘‘belonged right in with the big 
guns.” 

The resolutions were read, moved, and passed; 
the chairman made his opening address, ending it 
by introducing the first speaker; and the last rally 
of the clans, who on the morrow would struggle 
as of yore .for the supremacy of their party, was 
started. 

A rousing welcome ‘greeted every old war-horse 
of the party rising to give voice to oft-repeated 
sentiments. But when a dark, serious young man, 
286 


THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 287 

introduced by the chairman as “ our friend and 
neighbour who, surely, needs no introduction to 
any of us,’’ stepped to the edge of the stage, a cheer 
went up which threatened to raise the roof. 

The object of this tumultuous appreciation stood 
quietly and somewhat awkwardly, staring into the 
audience. One not familiar with the central per¬ 
sonality would have fancied *that a symphony of 
masterly rhetoric was destined to follow this pre¬ 
paratory pause. Alas! Andrew Ferguson was not 
an orator. He was not there to deliver a long 
rhapsody on patriotism and statesmanship—and it 
was not expected of him. They all knew him, were 
satisfied with just seeing him, and were willing to 
proclaim their endorsement of him by much noise 
and shouting. 

His speech was short and composed of platitudes: 

^^Fellow-citizens: Most of you have known me 
ever since I was a boy and know that I’m no speech- 
maker. Such as it is, my record speaks for itself, 
and there is nothing in my past that I want to hide. 
Whatever pledges have been made by the party or 
me will be fulfilled. And there is no need of my 
telling you that I will always look after the interests 
of my constituents, because you know it. So, 
hoping to see you all doing your duty on election 
day, I now give way to some more gifted speaker.” 

Again the audience rose as one man and made 
the rafters ring. But he, who had just “ said his 


288 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


piece/' made his embarrassed way to his seat, bow¬ 
ing slightly in the direction of a proscenium box in 
which several young ladies were chaperoned by a 
stoutish, grey-haired matron. 

Andrew Ferguson had been permitted by ‘‘ the 
powers ” to be the most conspicuous figure in this 
campaign. He had long been a factor in the politics 
of the ward. His rise had been due to the friend¬ 
ship of the one recognised despot of down-town 
politics. This leader had taken a liking to the boy, 
and, after giving him profitable employment in his 
many “ cafes ” had, on his retirement from active 
and open connections with divedom, selected Fer¬ 
guson as his trusted factotum. 

Although thus deprived of any visible means of 
support, Ferguson's prosperity did not diminish, 
and it made him the target of many insinuating 
hints and slurs. The Great Man did not care to 
have his own prestige lessened by these comments 
on his protege, and, after having him duly made 
the regular leader of the ward, had him nominated 
for the high office of assemblyman—to be a legis¬ 
lator for the “ freest people on earth." 

And so it was that the picture of the Hon. 
Andrew Ferguson looked at his constituents from 
many windows. Particularly, every ‘‘ dive," every 
place of evil repute, had his portrait in the place of 
honour. 

It cannot be said that the first impression of the 


THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 289 

face was bad. The day of the fat-jowled and fat- 
paunched leader is quickly passing. The “ young, 
rising statesman ’’ has arrived, and Ferguson, a 
perfect type of him, looked out from his picture 
with smiling eyes, hair carefully parted and plas¬ 
tered down from ‘‘ de middle,” with collar, tie, and 
clothes of latest fashion. 

Such rapid progress as Ferguson’s is certainly 
worth watching, and even the women of the district 
had taken a deep interest in his career. But Fer¬ 
guson had long ago settled his affections on Mary 
Slater, the adopted daughter of a childless widower. 

Old Slater had always been an indefinable quan¬ 
tity in down-town politics. He had never held 
office, yet had an immense following, which he con¬ 
trolled absolutely. During critical periods in cam¬ 
paigns he usually held the balance of power, and 
even presidential possibilities had come to him to 
solicit his support. At the death of his sister, Hugh 
Slater had taken her little daughter to his lonely 
house, and, though he was not lavish with his 
affection, Mary liked her grim uncle and was grate¬ 
ful to him for having given her a home. 

When it could no longer be denied that Andrew 
Ferguson was paying court to Mary Slater, many 
were inclined to ascribe it to the young man’s de¬ 
sire to profit by the old politician’s influence. If 
Ferguson had such design it was only secondary. 
Also an orphan, his better feelings had been stirred 


290 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

by the lonely position of the young girl, and, from 
pitying her, he had come to love her. To-night, 
the hero of the hour, he felt somewhat depressed 
at not having been able to give a better account of 
himself as an orator. However, as soon as feasi¬ 
ble he left the stage and entered the box, where 
Mrs. Landish, the wife of a State legislator, had a 
party of ladies, including Mary Slater, under her 
wing. 

“ Do you know,” said Mary Slater, after ex¬ 
tending the perfunctory congratulations, you said 
more in your few words than all the other speakers 
put together, and I thank you for it. I was afraid 
you would start in to tell a lot of discrediting things 
about the man who is running against you, and 
would rail against all and everything. Now I 
know you better than ever and know that your 
constituents and—and—others can trust you.” 

‘‘ Thank you, Mary,” whispered Ferguson, lean¬ 
ing over her chair. ‘‘ Thank you for trusting me, 
and let me assure you that I will never disappoint 
the trust placed in me.” 

Twenty-four hours later the din of tin horns 
and the shouting of the multitude announced that 
the sacred rights of franchise had once more been 
executed by a free people. At the clubs and asso¬ 
ciations of the East Side the elected were showered 
with congratulations. Assisted by his sponsor, the 
Great Man, Andrew Ferguson was holding a levee 


. THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 291 

at the rooms of the Tuscarora Club and had his 
hands almost wrung off by his many well-wishers, 
who hoped to be remembered in the fat days to 
come. But, flattering as it all was, Ferguson took 
leave as soon as possible and hurried to Mary Slater. 

The uncle was still busy with the aftermath of 
election, and the girl was alone. Mary had prayed 
a.11 day for her lover’s victory, and now his shining 
eyes messaged the well-won fight. 

“ It’s all over, Mary, and I’m elected by an over¬ 
whelming majority. It was a foregone conclusion 
that I would be elected; still, it is good to know that 
I’m no longer a nobody, but the Hon. Andrew Fer¬ 
guson, member of the Legislature^ who now asks 
Mary Slater most humbly to become his wife.” 

They were both prepared for this moment, and 
all that remained for old Slater to do on his re¬ 
turn was to give his smiling consent. 

There was just time enough for a short honey¬ 
moon trip before the opening of the Assembly, and, 
returning from it, the husband left his happy bride 
installed in a cosey flat. Mary felt as if in fairy¬ 
land, and after the departure of Ferguson set about 
to make their home the most beautiful in the ward. 

For a girl who had spent all her life in an atmos¬ 
phere in which all-pervading and all-controlling 
corruption did not even make the pretence of hiding 
itself, Mary was singularly innocent. From the 
time that she had been adopted by her uncle her 


292 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


life had been full of household duties, which were 
further increased by catering to the many whims 
of the aging politician. There had been little time 
for leisure and gossip, and the few minutes she 
could occasionally snatch from her work were spent 
in miscellaneous reading. It was this indiscrimi¬ 
nate reading that had led Mary to see in Andrew 
Ferguson chivalric traits which even his closest 
friends failed to discern. It also helped her to set 
standards which her lover would have to maintain 
to be sure of her love. 

The duties of legislators are various and many. 
In his home a room was fitted up as a sort of 
audience chamber, where Ferguson received his 
many callers. First, a heterogeneous crowd came to 
see him, poor and beggarly, reputable and disre¬ 
putable. Ere long the outward character of the 
visitors improved, and the conferences were fre¬ 
quently conducted in greatest secrecy, behind locked 
and bolted doors. Mary was not of an ultra-in¬ 
quisitive turn of mind, and, while cognizant of the 
peculiar calls and callers, never dreamed that evei*y- 
thing was not as it should be. Besides, her own 
affairs were needing the closest attention. 

The training at her uncle’s house had made Mary 
an exceedingly economical housekeeper, and she 
was not long in finding that her husband’s ex¬ 
travagant ways were not at all justified by their 
resources. She knew the exact amount of her hus- 


THE BURDEN OE THE MANY 293 

band’s salary, and also knew that they were living 
beyond it. With the realisation of their prodi¬ 
gality came Mary’s determination to retrench ex¬ 
penditures^ and she began by discharging their two 
servants. 

Ferguson’s first intimation of his wife’s eco¬ 
nomical measures came to him one night at dinner. 
Instead of the servant he found his young wife, 
in snowy apron, attending to the table. 

Mary, girl, this looks like old times, like when 
you were still at the uncle’s. You look very nice in 
that apron. But, tell me, why didn’t you let the 
girls do all this, instead of tiring yourself?” 

Because we haven’t any girls,” answered Mary 
smilingly. I’m getting the dinner to-night and 
will get it every night hereafter. I discharged the 
servants to-day and will have no more help, be¬ 
cause we cannot afford it. I figured it all out, and 
found that if we were to keep on living as we have 
been, you’d be in debt at the end of the year instead 
of having something put aside from your salary. 
I have been used to looking after the pennies ever 
since I was a child, and, without being miserly, 
I can save in many ways without your feeling it.” 

His wife’s arrangement was not at all to Fer¬ 
guson’s liking. 

“You foolish little girl, you! And you want 
to save, and so that I won’t feel it. But I tell you 
it can’t be done. We don’t have to economise. 


294 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


Mary. Even if we were living three times as ex¬ 
pensively as we’re living now, we would be a whole 
lot to the good. Em making money hand over 
fist, and-” 

‘‘ You’re doing nothing of the kind,” interposed 
Mary warmly. As I told you, I figured it all out 
to-day, and I know just exactly how much we can 
afford to spend on our home.” 

“ But you figured with only my salary as basis,” 
explained Ferguson laughingly. “ Don’t you know 
that that isn’t all I make? ” 

«It isn’t-?” 

“ Why, of course not. You see there is my mile¬ 
age, and my ”—for some unaccountable reason 

Ferguson’s speech came haltingly—“ and my- 

Why, a man in my position has lots of opportuni¬ 
ties for—for—investments and—other ways of 
increasing his income. Oh, you ought to know 
what I mean! And now, as punishment for my 
wife’s miserly intentions, I shall prove to her right 
now that I have no desire of hoarding my money.” 

Bewildered, Mary took the small parcel from him 
and opened it with care. At the sight of the glit¬ 
tering gems she stood speechless. 

“Well, does the punishment fit the crime?” 
asked Ferguson exultingly. 

“ Oh, Andrew, how could you ? It is almost 
sinful to waste money like this,” stammered the 
wife. “ I have never worn such jewelry. It must 





THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 295 

have cost a fortune, and it is surely too good for 
me.’’ 

Too good for you? ” he mocked. Well, your 
modesty is very becoming to you, but it is not at 
all justified. The most brilliant diamonds wouldn’t 
be any too good for you, and if you have never 
worn any before it is high time that you should 
begin now. Instead of having my wife turn into a 
miser, I want her to outshine any woman in the 
district. Look at that Mrs. Landish, and the dia¬ 
monds she has! And her husband been only three 
terms in the Legislature. So, don’t you worry, 
girlie. I got enough to buy you one of these 
gewgaws occasionally and pay for our groceries 
besides.” 

Mary, sadly nonplussed and disappointed, made 
no reply, but waited on Ferguson, who ate a hur¬ 
ried dinner as an extra session of the Assembly 
required him to leave for the capital that night. 

After the departure of her husband Mary en¬ 
deavoured to understand the situation. They had 
been married almost a year. Nothing as yet had 
happened to make her doubt her husband’s love. 
She was sure of that, as sure as of her own love 
for him. But for some unaccountable reason she 
felt that everything was not as it should be. Her 
innocence and inexperience prevented her from 
surmising the true state of affairs, but her fancy 
showed her many phantoms. Andrew might have 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


296 

run himself into debt to increase her comfort or 
might have risked his small capital in hazardous 
speculations. There were a hundred possibilities, 
and, instead of understanding the situation, her 
perplexity increased. 

In her perturbed state of mind she thought of 
her foster-father, and went to him who, certainly, 
knew every condition in the game of politics. 

Old Slater, famed for his brutal directness, saw 
immediately that this was no ordinary call. 

“ Well, what’s the trouble? ” 

With some hesitancy, Mary described her hus¬ 
band’s recklessness in money matters and asked 
her foster-father if, in his opinion, they were not 
living far above their station. 

“ What’s he doing? Doing the same as the rest 
o’ them, trying to beat the races or speculating in 
Wall Street?” queried Slater gruffly. 

‘‘ Oh, no; not that,” remonstrated Mary, resent¬ 
ing the scandalous insinuation. But I have made 
some calculations, and if we keep on living the way 
we do our expenses will exceed Andrew’s salary 
by at least five hundred dollars at the end of the 
year. Besides, he made me a present of some 
jewelry which must have cost over a hundred dol¬ 
lars, if not more, and-” 

Slater’s loud guffaw indicated his appreciation of 
this huge joke. 

“ Say, you’re a wonder, Mary,” he laughed. 



THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 297 

wiping his flabby cheeks. “ Here you got a hus¬ 
band who’s a model and a bundle o’ virtues, who 
don’t gamble or speculate, but buys you diamonds 
instead, and still you’re kicking. Say, if I was 
to tell anybody about this they’d never believe me 
that old Slater’s niece and step-daughter could be 
as green as all this.” He changed to a more serious 
tone. The best thing you can do is to leave your 
husband’s money-matters alone. As long as he’s 
the leader of the district you needn’t be afraid of 
dying of starvation. And, another thing—don’t you 
get too inquisitive. There are a whole lot of * per¬ 
quisites of office,’ but it takes too blamed long to 
explain them to people. As long as he keeps you 
in a nice home and buys you those diamond things, 
you ain’t got no kick coming, and better mind your 
own business.” 

Mary’s mind was not at all relieved by the in¬ 
terview with her uncle. That something, which 
seemed to be an open secret to many, was still 
hidden and unknown to her was conclusively proven 
to her by the innuendo of the old politican. She 
almost regretted having come to him. Her hus¬ 
band was the one to enlighten her. He was due 
home shortly and she would go to him with her 
questions. 

Lost in thought at the comer of the street, she 
was greatly annoyed by the swarm of newsboys 
shouting their Extras,” adding a confused jum- 


298 MY OLD BAILIWICK 

ble about some important occurrence at the State 
capital. That the news could have the slightest 
connection with her troubles was not even dreamed 
by Mary. On the car she could not avoid seeing 
glaring headlines in the paper eagerly read by the 
man sitting beside her: 

BRIBERY SCANDAL 

FRANCHISE GRAFT EXPOSED 

Assemblyman Threatened with Arrest 

Her husband was in the Assembly! 

The very next line had her husband’s name in 
capital letters. She read on, but the type blurred 
before her eyes. No, she would get off, buy a 
paper, and read it without prejudice or bias. 

The account was given with great detail. The 
ring of contractors and promoters had thrown hun¬ 
dreds of thousands of dollars into the legislative 
house. The money was to have been distributed 
by their most able representative and champion, 
Andrew Ferguson, who at the moment of victory 
had turned it into defeat by fraudulent ” dis¬ 
bursement of the bribe entrusted to him. Greed, 
it was claimed, had made him shave ” the indi¬ 
vidual allotments, thereby increasing his to the 
lion’s share. The “ defrauded ” patriots had 
bolted, and, in the turmoil ensuing, the “ deal ” 


THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 299 

had been dragged into publicity—for which noble 
deed every newspaper and ‘‘undefrauded” states¬ 
man was claiming the credit. It was rumoured 
that indictments were being prepared. 

How Mary got home, and how she spent the 
interval until her husband's home-coming, no one, 
not even she, could tell. 

A late train brought the legislator to the city. 
Immediately a council of the leaders was held. 
“ The Party was shaken to its very foundations.” 
The executive—and scheming—session lasted until 
the small hours of the morning. Then Ferguson 
went home. 

His wife, pale and silent, rose from her seat 
at the window, swaying between contempt and 
loyalty, not yet knowing whether to reproach or 
pity him. Ferguson needed no sympathy, much 
less pity. The dejected, haggard criminal of her 
mental vision, sneaking home in disgrace and fear 
of detection, proved to be a debonair and jaunty 
gentleman, bringing with him the aroma of the ci¬ 
gars and drink consumed in the council chamber. 

“ Andy, oh, Andy, tell me, it's all a mistake, isn't 
it ? You had nothing to do with it; you're not impli¬ 
cated in this—in this—oh, I can't even mention it! ” 

“ For Heaven's sake, what is the matter with you, 
Mary ? ” Ferguson was as self-possessed as ever. 
“ What are you talking about ? That garbled and 
sensational account in this afternoon's paper? You 


300 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


ought to have more sense than that. It won’t 
amount to anything—it’s nothing. We fixed it to¬ 
night, as soon as I got back to town; and in a day 
or two the whole thing will be forgotten. These 
things will happen sometimes, but they always make 
more smoke than fire.” 

His wife remaining silent, Ferguson permitted 
an expression of deep injury to creep over his 
features. 

“ But it’s nice to find out what kind of a wife I 
got. Supposing the thing would have amounted 
to something, I can imagine what I would have 
got from you. Where a good wife would have had 
a few words of cheer or comfort, you would have 
had nothing but blame and upbraidings for me. 
And all because I would have been caught with the 
goods.” He stepped closer to her. ‘‘ Say, do you 
know how you act? You act as if I were a thief 
and-” 

“What are you, if not that?” cried Mary, and 
Ferguson realised that his “ fool wife ” had 
changed to a wise woman. 

“ Oh, so I’m a thief, am I ? ” he sneered. “ Well, 
if I stole, for whom did I steal? I stole for you, 
because I loved you and want to make you the 
‘ lady of the ward.’ I wanted to make money, lots 
of it, because I wanted you to be envied by the 
others. What do you think did I go to the Assem¬ 
bly for? Men don’t go into politics for their health. 



THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 301 

That’s where the ‘ investments ’ are. And you, as 
to you—do you think you can make anybody be¬ 
lieve that you were so soft you did not know where 
the money was coming from? I might believe it, 
but they won’t. They know you handled most of 

the money and got diamonds bought with it, and- 

Ah, don’t be foolish, Mary! Have a little sense. 

I’m no worse than the others and-” 

Ferguson had been so intense in his harangue 
that the collapse of his wife had been unnoticed by 
him, and he barely had the time to catch her in his 
arms. It was the beginnings of a long illness. 

Weeks passed and the relations of wife and hus¬ 
band were still undefined. Mary never asked for 
him and would not see him unless the nurse or 
Mrs. Landish were present. 

The liking of Mrs. Landish for Mary was of 
many years’ standing. And it increased when Fer¬ 
guson became a member of the Legislature, in 
which Jim Landish had served for two preceding 
terms. Enjoying a popularity that was genuine, 
Mrs. Landish was esteemed and respected for her 
charity and her good-humour, which never varied 
even under the most trying circumstances. 

Mary firmly believed that her recovery was 
speeded by the motherly care of Mrs. Landish, who 
often sat for hours beside the invalid’s couch. It 
was not necessary for Mary to tell her story in de¬ 
tail. Mrs. Landish understood readily. Her hus- 




302 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


band, too, was a legislator. The older woman had, 
also, had her experience and could sympathise. 

“ Yes, dear, it’s bad and wicked. I used to feel 

the same way about it, just the same, but-” 

Oh, how could you stand it ? ” Mary would 
interpose with a semblance of her old spirit. ‘‘ It 
it unbearable to know that-” 

‘‘ I know, I know,” consoled the friend, “ but 
what can we do? And, at last, one gets used to it, 
because—and that is the saddest of it all—there is 
no choice.” 

Restored to health, it seemed as if Mary had 
learned her lesson from Mrs. Landish. Whenever 
husband and wife appeared on public occasions it 
would have been difficult to find any difference in 
their intercourse. The servants were installed 
again and were given carte blanche, as Mary inter¬ 
fered very rarely in household matters. Her social 
duties were not neglected; and they kept increasing, 
as term after term her husband was sent to the As¬ 
sembly or other important legislative bodies, where 
his services were of such incalculable value to his 
constituents. At the many “ affairs ” which were 
honoured by the presence of the Hon. Andrew Fer¬ 
guson and his wife Mary’s diamonds and gowns 
were the admiration and envy of the other women. 
Withal, Mary did not forget the less fortunate. 
The audience room, once used by her husband, was 
now entirely reserved for the poor of the district, 




THE BURDEN OF THE MANY 303 


who came to her on many errands and were never 
sent away unhelped or unconsoled. And in the 
same measure as the husband is held up to the 
young men of the ward as an example worth fol¬ 
lowing, so the wife is quoted as a model to all 
young maids and women by their elders. 

As to the love and the inner life of Andrew 
Ferguson and his wife—who cares for the lot of 
the wives of our statesmen! 


XIX 


YULETIDE DOWN IN MULBERRY 

W E were all at Lynch’s in Mulberry Street, 
and we all knew it was the evening of 
the twenty-fourth of December. Now I, 
for one, haven’t got anything to say against the 
beauties of sporting life, where everything—money, 
drinking, and eating—comes to you in the way of a 
surprise; but I must admit that these holidays are 
not exactly the most cheerful moments in a sporting 
fellow’s existence. Try as hard as you may, there 
are a few days in the year when a fellow simply 
can’t help doing a little serious thinking. And the 
worst of these days is Christmas Eve. 

So we—there were about six of us—didn’t feel 
any too hilarious and did a pile of thinking. Those 
that had never had a regular home sat kicking be¬ 
cause they couldn’t spend the day with their folks; 
and those that had lost their home kicked because 
they had lost it for the sake of this sporting life. 
And if you’d taken us and stood us up on our heads, 
there wouldn’t as much as a penny dropped from 
our pockets. 

And it was Christmas Eve. 

Sure enough, old man Lynch, knowing our feel- 
304 


YULETIDE IN MULBERRY 305 

ings and their colour, did the right thing and called 
us over to the bar every once in a while; but that 
didn’t brighten things to any considerable extent. 

There we sat and had the whole place to our¬ 
selves. The door hadn’t be^n opened in over an 
hour, all the customers being home and enjoying 
themselves with their families. 

All of a sudden—there hadn’t been a word said 
in over half an hour—Hickey O’Connell jumps up. 

“ I can’t stand this, fellows! I never yet had a 
Christmas without a home or a piece of turkey, and 
if you can stand this, I can’t. I’m going out to get 
a piece o’ money.” 

Even before we knew what he was going to do 
he was out of the door, and we got a little closer 
around the stove. 

After a while old Lynch put up the drinks again 
and asked if any of us had seen Nick, the dago, who 
had the boot-blacking stand in front of the store, 
and did the cleaning for it instead of paying 
for the privilege. There was nobody foolish enough 
to think that Nick ever would get rich through that 
blacking stand. He used to be something or other 
in his own country, and when he landed in Mul¬ 
berry Street all the dago girls got stuck on him on 
account of his ways and looks. He certainly could 
get more music out of his guitar than any other 
man I ever knew. Besides that, he used to sing 
those foreign songs; and, the first thing you knew. 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


306 

he and Annita Riccardo got married. For them to 
get married was the best proof that most of these 
foreigners haven’t got all the sense they ought to 
have. Of course I didn’t have a chance to count 
their money, but it’s a safe bet that there wasn’t 
over five dollars between the two when they got 
spliced. 

Nick wasn’t much of a drinker, and that’s about 
all he was likely to get for his singing and playing 
in Mulberry Street. He looked for work all right, 
but he had no trade and wasn’t any too strong, and 
he had no luck along that line beyond getting an 
odd job here and there. Then when Tony, who 
had the blacking stand in front o’ Lynch’s, moved 
downtown, he recommended Nick for the job, and 
he’s been there ever since. 

Now, there are more “ hang-ups ” than cash 
shines on this stand, and when his wife took sick, 
things went very much to the bad with Nick. The 
few pennies he made went for the doctor and the 
medicine, and then, to make matters worse, came 
the baby, which was a girl. Nick always used to 
smile and speak of the kid, but you couldn’t help 
noticing that he wasn’t eating any too much and 
begrudged every penny for fear they wouldn’t have 
what they needed home. Of course, old man Lynch 
and some of us, when we were flush, would stake 
him to a little change, but, you know, times ain’t 
what they used to be in sporting life, and, whilst 


YULETIDE IN MULBERRY 307 

we had the necessary good nature, we didn’t have 
the necessary cash. 

Well, as I was saying. Lynch was asking if any 
of us had seen the dago, when he came in from the 
sidewalk. 

‘‘ Boss, me wanta go home. You want tapa more 
beer before I go? ” 

“ I guess not,” said Lynch. “ There ain’t a cent 
in the house. But you can put a little more coal 
on the fire before you go.” 

Nick came over to the stove, and then we noticed 
that he was dressed up as if for a special occasion. 
Not that he had on different clothes—he only had 
just that one suit—but he had his hair all combed, 
and must have used a bar of soap to get all the 
blacking off his hands and face. 

‘‘ What’s the matter? ” I asked him. Going to 
a ball to-night? ” 

You ought to have seen the way he looked at me! 
Just as if he wanted to scare me. 

“ Yes, me go to ball, greata, fina ball,” he said, 
and laughs rather foolishly. “ Yes, me go get 
plenta to eat and drink, me and da wife and da 
babe.” 

I knew he was not telling me the truth, but I 
owed him for so many shines that I couldn’t afford 
to have an argument with him. 

As soon as he got through with the stove he went 
to the door, and old Lynch hollered after him: 


3o8 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


“ Merry Christmas, Nick! And don't forget, I 
got a turkey in the ice-box for you for to-morrow." 

Naturally, you would suppose that the dago 
would have said “ Thank you " or something of the 
kind, but he only stood there like a dummy, and 
then, all of a sudden, he opens up. 

“Turkey? Ha, ha!" and you didn't know 
whether he was laughing or crying. “ Me no want 
da turk. Me got plenta, ev'ryt'ing home. Da wife 
and da babe and me, we got fina Christmas." And 
then he turned to us around the stove. “ Say, young 
fellows, you lika da plenta da fun? Yes, you come 
wida me, I show." 

As I told you, there was nothing doing in 
Lynch's, and we knew that the dagoes always have 
lots of drinking and eating when they celebrate any 
holidays, and, the first thing you knew, the whole 
lot of us followed Nick out of the store. 

Somebody asks him: “ What is it, Nick? Chris¬ 
tening, or wedding, or only Christmas?" 

“ No, no, but plenta da fun," was all he would 
say. 

We no sooner had climbed the five flights of stairs 
up to his room when we tumbled that we had been 
sold by the dago. An old soap-box was on top of 
the range, but there was no fire in it, and it was 
freezing outside. His wife was sitting on the other 
side of the range, but never took any notice of us 
at all. 


YULETIDE IN MULBERRY 


309 


Nick went over to the mantel and lit another 
lamp, and then he began saying, “ Merra Christa- 
mas, Merra Christamas/’ until we thought he had 
lost his reason. 

Well, there wasn’t anything doing up there, and 
so we started to go back to Lynch’s. But Nick 
noticed it, and jumped to the door. 

“ Oh, you no go yet! ” he cried. “ We have nice 
Christamas, plenta da fun, and plenta of ev’ryt’ing. 
See,” and with that he rushes over to the soap-box, 
“ look, look! Merra Christamas, eh ? ” 

Not one of us went over to that box. Everyone 
of us felt right there and then what was in the box, 
and besides we all remembered then that the kid 
hadn’t been playing round the same as always. But 
Nick, he kept hollering, and nothing would do but 
we all had to go over and take a peep. 

I might as well tell you we felt kind of foolish. 
You know, between you and me, it wasn’t much of 
a kid. I don’t think it weighed over ten pounds, 
and you could see by the looks of it that it wouldn’t 
have lasted much longer, anyway. We thought the 
best thing we could do was to take a quiet sneak, 
and were making for the door, when Nick gives a 
yelp, and grabs that box in his arms as if he would 
never let go of it again. 

“ Mia bombina, povre bombina! ” he kept on, sob¬ 
bing and crying as if his heart was right in that 
box. 


310 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


It’s funny how these things happen, but when I 
looked around there was every one of us fellows 
standing there without a move, and all with their 
hats off, which we had on when we first came in. 
And the worst of it was that there wasn’t a cent 
between us, and the poor kid all ready to go off in a 
soap-box. 

We did a little whispering between us, and, being 
of no earthly use there, we were going out this time 
for fair, and—if lucky—come back again. Neither 
Nick nor his wife were taking any notice of us, and 
we would have got out all right, only just then she 
slipped out of the chair and on to the floor without 
as much as a sigh. 

That stirred us up. While a couple of us were 
picking her up, the others were making a quick bee¬ 
line for Lynch’s or any place to get something 
strong for to brace her up. But even before those 
fellows got down one flight of stairs, there was 
Hickey O’Connell hollering up from the bottom 
floor: 

Hey, you fellows, ain’t you going to come 
down ? I got bushels of the stuff, but I ain’t climb¬ 
ing up to a dago’s joint on Christmas Eve.” 

We were afraid that perhaps Nick might hear 
him, but the dago just kept on hugging that box, 
and was dead to everything else. 

Healy and Collins, the two that were on their 
way to Lynch’s, ran downstairs and told Hickey 


YULETIDE IN MULBERRY 311 

O’Connell all about it, and he must have fairly 
jumped the flights to get into the room. 

His hands were full of bills and silver. When he 
dumped it on the table you could see in a minute 
that there was enough to buy Christmas dinners for 
fifty of us. He shoved it all together in a pile and 
then turned to Nick. 

“ Say, Nick, you wasn’t going to bury the baby 
in that soap-box, was you ? ” 

He had to repeat it before the dago understood 
him. 

“Bury da babe?” and the poor, crazy dago 
laughed. “ Ha, ha, me no bury da babe. Me throw 
away; into da street; into ev’ryt’ing. What’s the 
matter? you no care? Dees only one dago babe, 
none good for notting, but,” and again he clutched 
that box, “ me love deesa dago babe, deese povre 
bombina, and dees is da Merra Christamas.” 

“ Now, don’t be talking like a hard-boiled egg,” 
said Hickey, who was a good fellow, but had no 
education. “ It’s your kid, and I guess it don’t 
make any difference whether it’s dago or anything 
else. Nick, I got an old lady, and that poor soul 
loves me to-day, and, God knows, I’m black enough 
to be a dago. And, anyway, that kid of yours ain’t 
going to be buried that way.” 

In less than five minutes Baccigalupi, the under¬ 
taker, was notified, and, after that was fixed, Hickey 
stepped over to the table and separated the bills and 


312 


MY OLD BAILIWICK 


the silver. All the silver and loose change he put 
in his pocket. Then he took all the bills without 
counting—^and there must have been at least thirty 
dollars in that roll—and hands them to Nick. 

It was so unexpected that Nick didn’t understand 
for a long while. When he understood—you ought 
to have seen him—^he acted as if he’d won the capi¬ 
tal prize in the lottery. 

“What? da mon for me, for me?” he jabbered, 
all excited. “ Ah, you’re craze, Hickey, you—no, 
no, me craze, yes, me craze. For da bombina-” 

“ Oh, that’s all right, Nick,” says Hickey, as if 
he was giving money to the poor every day. “ I 
owe you for a whole lot of shines over to the stand, 
and you can pay me back in shines for what’s over 
when you’re working again.” 

When we got downstairs Hickey counted the 
change he had in his pocket, and we saw the finish 
of any turkey hopes. There was just enough for a 
beef-stew and a couple of drinks for each of us. 
Still, every one of us was kind of jealous because we 
didn’t have the chance to stake the dago. 

We went over to Tucker’s and ate, and then went 
back to Lynch’s. It didn’t take long to spend the 
few cents we had, and when we got down to the last 
round Hickey made a speech. 

“ Well, fellows, we got beat out of our turkey, 
and I’m sorry for you. I don’t think any of you 
are kicking about it. If there is anybody inclined 



YULETIDE IN MULBERRY 313 

to kick, now is the time for him to say so,’' says 
Hickey, without anybody taking- him up. “ I know 
one thing, and that is that I am willing- to bet my 
last cent Fll have my turkey next Christmas—and 
here’s to it.” 

We didn’t even have our glasses back on the bar 
when the door opened and in came Mullen and 
Hecker, the two wardmen. They didn’t take any 
chances when they saw there were six of us, and 
pulled their guns on us. Even with that we would 
have been willing to give them a fight, because we 
knew what they were after; but Hickey queered the 
game. 

“ Ah, they got me dead to rights, fellows,” said 
he, and went right over to the fly cops. “ Anyway, 
I guess Nick will be shining your shoes for some 
time on ‘ hang-up,’ and I was right. I’ll have my 
turkey in jail next Christmas. It’s the only place 
where you’re sure of it.” 

And so we spent that Christmas down in 
Mulberry. 


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